Mercenary
by PoisonousAngel
Summary: Bane survived the Catwoman's attack. But now he wakes to agony of the worst kind. He is imprisoned in Arkham Asylum and in extreme pain. But not for long. The sun cannot blind him forever. Post TDKR. Bane/OC COMPLETE
1. Inside the Fire

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 1**

**Inside the Fire**

_"Take your place inside the fire with her." - Disturbed_

**W**hat was Hell really like? How would the demons torture you as you screamed for mercy? How hot was the fire? How badly would you be burned? What face would the Devil be wearing?

He was in Hell. He knew it. A Hell far worse than the cursed pit, far worse than they could ever imagine in silly movies or books. The fire was unimaginable. The voices around him laughed and cursed him to more torture. The pokes and the prods felt like lava under his skin. The light destroyed him, glaring and unforgiving.

And the pain…

Oddly enough, he could remember no worse pain. The pain from before, before his medicine, before his mask, was almost nothing. In this moment in time, that pain in his memory was starting to fade and curl at the edges. He was afraid that if he waited much longer, endured _this_ much longer, he'd lose that memory altogether. He'd rather hold on to that pain instead of this. It would disappear into the black void with his other thoughts, his thoughts on what exactly happened after everything turned to fire, and he'd be left sitting at the edges again, waiting for something, anything, to float to the top.

_Where was Talia?_

His eyes snapped open, and he was horribly greeted with more light. Closing them again, he tried to make himself fade into nothingness. Maybe if he ignored this Hell, he could get through it.

_Goodbye, my friend. _

His body convulsed and jumped, his eyes took the light this time. And several pairs of hands held him back down.

"What's going on?"

"He's conscious!"

"Hold him down and get me some anesthetic!"

He was shaking. He couldn't breathe. The pain was unbearable.

Bane blinked repeatedly to moist his severely dry eyes and kept them on the light. He forced himself, _commanded_ himself to breathe. And when he did, taking a very loud gasp, the pain intensified. A scream built up in his throat, not from the pain this time, but from realization.

He was breathing fresh air.

Where was his mask? His medicine? He desperately needed his medicine.

He looked down at his body, and saw ruin.

Taking more loud and unfamiliar deep breaths, Bane gazed at his ruin, and realized he was not in Hell at all. He was still alive.

He looked back up, at the many faces of paramedics and cops and firemen as they did whatever they were doing to him. The pain consumed him once again, the agony of it choking him completely. He was alive.

And Gotham City had not been reduced to ashes.

_**TBC**_


	2. Bless the Child

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 2**

**Bless the Child**

"_I have never felt so alone in my life, as I drank from the cup which was counting my time." – Nightwish_

They kept him in and out of consciousness. In the beginning it was better for them to do it that way, and in the end better for him. He didn't remember how many times he would waken, as coherent as he could be, until after the last few surgeries and things started to slow down some. But one thing he did know, however, every time he was awake, was that he was never given back his mask.

Oh, they tried to help with the pain. He knew that he was receiving the drugs that any other patient undergoing numerous surgeries would get. The constant IV, the needle in his arm that wasn't helping at all with the constant ache, would remind him every time he opened his eyes.

At times – he found out later – when he would be awake between his surgeries, before they put him under again for the next operation or simply because they felt safer, he would wonder why he was still alive at all. After everything he'd said, everything he'd done, everyone he'd killed, why was he still breathing? He knew Gotham had plans for him the moment his brain started to function again. He just didn't understand all the details just yet.

When they found him, however long it was after he'd obviously been shot, Bane's torso had been shattered. He'd been severely burned from the heat, and broken from the blast. Both his shoulders had been dislocated horribly, and his skin practically melting off into the paramedics hands.

And at times, when he would wake, if only for a short period of time, he knew they were very confused at his survival.

They didn't know the depths of his pain. They didn't know that he could survive _anything_. When they put him under the first time, it was the beginning of a very long road.

He needed skin grafts. Lucky for him, he had plenty of skin to spare. That took weeks of recovery. And he could only lay there, restrained of course, even though it wasn't needed, being pumped and pumped full of morphine. He needed microsurgery, to repair his damaged nerves and arteries. Free flap procedures, to transfer what he needed to his wound site. He needed tissue expansion, which took about 4 months to accomplish.

And then after the surgeries came the infections from them. More recovery time. His body wasn't healing like it would before.

He could remember very little during this time. It was almost as if about a year of his life was simply forgotten, high on the drugs. But he could remember a few things. He could remember how not one person would look at him. They stared at his body, touched his incisions, read his charts. But his eyes were avoided. He wondered later if it was from hate, or fear.

Bane could remember one particular time, when he was awake and a nurse was redressing his wounds. He stared at her, slowly breathing into his oxygen mask, and softly asked her a question. He knew she would avoid his gaze, and accepted her silence. But when she slowly leaned forward, bringing her ear closer to his mouth and surprising him, he tried his very best to be heard.

"Do you know…" Was that his voice? It was almost embarrassing. The pain was too much, and his throat felt as if he'd swallowed fire. "Where is Talia?"

The nurse stayed leaning toward him for a few seconds before shaking her head, and whispering to him, the first conversation he'd had in what seemed like forever. "I don't know a Talia. Go to sleep."

And he did.

* * *

They woke him one morning, restrained, and slowly elevated his bed. Bane opened his eyes to doctors hovering all around, and stared at the one at the foot who looked like he had something to say. The man's arms were crossed, and what seemed to be a scowl spread across his very tired face.

"Waking up okay, Sleeping Beauty?"

Bane took a few deep breaths, and slowly nodded.

"Good. Want some more oxygen?"

Oxygen? Did they really believe that he was feeling any kind of comfort from oxygen? He didn't think they would care if he did. But he nodded again anyway.

The doctor gave the nurse by Bane's bed the okay to feed him more through the small mask attached to his face. "Wonderful. Okay, Mister Bane. As much as I hate this and very much disagree with it, I'll tell you who these people around you are. I'm Dr. Fitch, lead surgeon on your case. The rest are those in my team, working around the clock to repair you and keep you alive."

Bane wondered if he should thank them, as he gazed at each and every doctor who wouldn't look back at him. Instead, he worked on trying to keep up with this man's words as the pain clawed at his body.

"It's been a long road for you. Your many surgeries have taken much time. A little over a year, to be exact. And you still have a few more weeks here for recovery and observation. The military patrols this place every single day. If you try to escape or hurt anymore, you will be blown to bits. The feeding tube will come out tomorrow, after which you'll start on regular food. There will be no physical therapy."

Bane heard a sense of smug in his voice then. And felt his own when he knew that the only physical therapy he would need, would be his own. Taking a big gulp of the oxygen, Bane forced himself to speak. "Why are you doing this?"

The doctor scoffed and motioned for the others to begin exiting the room. "Orders, Mister Bane. Orders, and a very large check for us all."

* * *

The nurses tried to start him off small with meals. After all, he hadn't eaten regular food in a very long time. But when he downed the small pieces of broccoli like they were M&M's, they knew their eating schedule for him was pointless.

He ate fast for someone in his situation. Years with his mask on made him scarf down his food as quickly as possible, so he wouldn't have to be without his medicine for very long, so he wouldn't feel the spears of his pain. He knew he could have had it off longer than he made it seem, but to keep the worst of the pain back was far more important.

2 weeks after his chat with the doctor, Bane was hardly ever put under.

His next visit came one afternoon after his routine checkup. He was lounging in his restraining bed, reading some stupid magazine to distract himself from his chronic pain, even though nothing would help but his mask. Dr. Fitch came in again with a military man, one who Bane knew was keeping an eye on him.

"This is Lieutenant Brooks, Mister Bane. He's the one with the armory outside."

Bane nodded at him, and started to twist the magazine in his hands tightly. So much for distraction. "Afternoon, Lieutenant."

Brooks turned to Dr. Fitch. "I'd like to speak with him alone, Doctor." Once they were alone, Brooks pulled up a chair and sat. "I'm not here to chat. So I'd appreciate it if you stayed quiet so we can get this meeting over with, and I can go back to hoping you screw up so I can blast your ass all the way to Pittsburg."

Bane tightened his grip on the magazine.

"You've been kept alive. The city's officials had meetings and meetings over your future after you were found last year. The conclusion they came to was the keep you breathing, since you obviously don't care about death. The bomb would have killed everyone, including you, so the only punishment they could see fit would be to let you live."

Bane almost smiled. Where on earth would they put someone like him? The people of Gotham City were very foolish, indeed.

"Instead of death row," Brooks continued, standing now. "You are sentenced to spend the rest of your days at Arkham Asylum. The men who followed you will go to Blackgate. I'm sure you'll feel more at home with the other crazy people."

Bane stared hard at Brooks, and enjoyed it when he saw him squirm ever so slightly. "Crazy is a matter of perspective, Lieutenant."

Brooks kicked his chair away, and tried to keep his gaze. "If it were my choice you would hang. Instead, Gotham City has labeled you insane. You'll be moved tomorrow." He took the door handle, and nodded at his backup waiting just outside. "Make sure you rest up, Mister Bane. You have an appointment with Jeremiah Arkham tomorrow morning."

Bane watched him leave, rubbing his dry lips together. And the magazine tore in half in his grip.

* * *

He didn't put up a fight when he was moved. He was in too much pain, a pain he hide well. He had no resources right now either. So for now, he would wait and he would plan. He would go to their silly asylum, and let the taxpayers pay for his room and board. He needed time to think. He needed to gather more contacts, for Gotham would always be corrupt no matter what masked hero or district attorney it had saving them. He needed to find out what was going on with the city while he was away. He wasn't allowed TV or the newspaper in Gotham General, and the only reading material he was given were the celebrity gossip magazines.

He needed to find out where Talia was, so he could go to her.

But before then, he sat in the chair, cuffed as tightly as he could be, and sat across from the man himself, Jeremiah Arkham.

Jeremiah was a handsome man, Bane was surprised to know. Especially for someone who ran a house of insanity. Dressed perfectly in an Armani suit and dirty blonde hair cut expertly, he gave off a professional vibe. His nails were manicured and his glasses designer, no doubt another man of privilege, one who didn't know what the world was really like, one who only oversaw the insane portion.

Bane wanted to break him in two.

Jeremiah smiled at him. "Let me be the first to say, welcome home."

"How many times have you used that line, Mister Arkham?"

"Enough to love it a little more each time. You know," he began, sitting up a little straighter and seeming a lot more giddy than expected. "As soon as I saw you on TV last year at the football game, I _knew_ you'd be sitting exactly where you are right now."

Bane forced a breathy laugh through the oxygen mask they still let him have. The oxygen did nothing and the tank rolling behind him was annoying. But the feeling of it there, a reminder of what he would have again, made him keep it. "I highly doubt that," he answered. "You thought you would burn with the rest of them. As soon as I said hold your families close, you ran on home to your beautiful wife. And I bet you cried."

"I'll ask that you speak only when given a question. Your time here is a punishment, but you also come with conditions. You'll be given a week's trial for good behavior. After that week, and you've been a good big boy, you may keep whatever medical supplies you need, supplies preapproved by Dr. Fitch, of course. And you may rest. Other privileges are available, but that's up to you. You will not be allowed into the courtyard or the cafeteria with the other inmates, ever. All your meals will be given to you in your cell."

Jeremiah scribbled something on a notepad next to him, then picked up a forgotten email on his desk. He skimmed it and sighed softly.

"Hmm. Interesting. Well, you'll be happy to know that your status has just changed. We were just going to lock you up and throw away the key. But it seems that the city has called for you to receive psychiatric care, as well."

Bane narrowed his eyes. "I do not need or want any kind of psychiatric care, Mister Arkham."

"Trust me, if this weren't court ordered I wouldn't allow it either. Especially after what's happened with… previous therapists and their patients here."

Bane lifted a brow. He really needed to find out what was going on in the world. But for right now, his energy from this meeting was almost gone. He just wanted to rest, and try to block out his agony.

"But, it's out of my hands now. You should be meeting her in a few days."

When Bane spoke next, his voice sounded strained and just a little weak. He really needed his medicine. "Her?"

Jeremiah started packing up his briefcase, and tossed the paper with his information at Bane so he could read it. "Dr. Camille Lane. Go get some rest now, Mister Bane. You got some bags under those eyes."

He walked to the door and told security that Bane was ready to be moved to his cell. As he was, Jeremiah gave him a mean smirk.

"Please enjoy your stay here, Bane. You definitely deserve it."

Bane figured that was another line Jeremiah Arkham used quite frequently as well.

**TBC**

**A/N: Hello, my fellow Bane lovers. Thank so much for all the positive feedback. I really appreciate it! Just a quick note: This story has already been planned out from beginning to end. It's the only way I can write. So if this seems a little bit repeat-ish from other Bane stories in whatever area, just know that it wasn't my intention to sound the same. I have a lot in store for you guys. And in case anyone is wondering, all my chapters will be named after songs that I see fitting to the story. The quote is part of the song, and you should check them all out as we go along. Thanks a lot! Muah!**


	3. Breathe into Me

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 3**

**Breathe into Me**

"_And this is how it hurts when I pretend I don't feel any pain. And this is how I disappear when I throw myself away." – Red_

_She was meant to be a secret. But he knew. She was meant to be hidden away. But he saw her. She was supposed to be taken care of. But she wasn't. Not like she should have been. Not like her mother wanted her to be. But trapped in this prison, she could only do her best. Trapped in this hell, she could only fight so hard. _

_Until one day, the mother couldn't fight any longer. One day, everything turned into chaos. _

_But before the chaos, she would tell her little child stories about up above. He knew, because he too would listen to them. He would enjoy them, just as the child did. He would hope, just as the woman's little daughter did, the little daughter that was made to look like a son. But with the hope came the despair, and it sat on their hearts, so heavy and never moving. _

"_Look up into the sky, my love," the mother, the beautiful lady he was surprised had even lasted this long, murmured to her baby, her nine year old little secret. "One day you will be free. One day the sun will kiss you. One day you will find true love." The woman smiled softly at that. Her own true love would probably never find her, never kiss her again. Her great love. She looked down at her child again. Her great sacrifice. "You must be strong, my baby. You must be brave. I will not always be here to protect you from this place." _

_His eyes darkened when overhearing those words, silently keeping watch. _

_The child looked up into the sky then, her eyes almost laughing. "Then I will just have to protect _you_, mama." _

_The corner of his mouth lifted under his rags. _

_The woman stared into her beautiful child's eyes, and became sad. How could you explain such things to a baby? "Of course, my love. But until then, I want you to watch." _

"_But, mama, I don't want to watch. I don't like to see them fall." _

"_I know. But you must learn." She ignored the grumbling, and they both looked up to watch another try to make the climb. As her daughter watched, the woman tensed, feeling the eyes of the others on her again. She softly placed her hand on her child's shoulder, more of a reassuring touch for herself, and prayed that they would stay away for another day. _

_He saw them too, and knew exactly what they were thinking. He was nothing but a man, just like them, and knew how hard it was to go day by day with their needs never being met. And how even harder it was to ignore those needs when a grown woman was right within reach. But to him, this woman had a job to do. This woman had an innocent life in her hands. And he would not destroy the tiny shred of innocence they had in this godforsaken place. _

_He heard the footsteps, he knew the intent, and he edged closer to the woman and her child. He gave them a look, staring hard at them, knowing they knew who he was even under the filthy rags. The three men almost held their ground, but after a while they fell back into the shadows. They knew what he was saying even without the words. _

_Not on my watch. _

_The child fell into her mother's embrace as the prisoner fell from the edge, and the sick sound of the rope tightening hard. The mother leaned down so she could be eye level with her baby once they were back inside their cell. _

"_You will climb one day, my love. You will find your father, who I tell you about every day. You will be find him, and be free." _

_The girl absentmindedly nodded, then had no choice but to stare into her mother's eyes once she took her cheeks in her hand. _

"_Do you hear me? Do you understand? You will be free. You will not die here, Talia." _

_And then the men came back. The screaming began. _

_Bane ran as fast as he could. _

* * *

He awakened with a jolt. His head flew up from his bed and he became aware of two things at once. His lower back was killing him and he was sweating much more than usual.

Bane glanced around at his cell as he swallowed. Arkham Asylum was not known for their lovely rooms and gracious hospitality to their patients. He didn't know about the rest of the people who resided here, but his cell was small, which only made it worse for a man his size. The walls were a dark grey, with little patches of dark blue here and there for some color. The only furniture he had was a bed, once that was not helping with his pain at all, and a small end table with only one drawer. What the drawer was for, he had no idea. He wasn't allowed anything else, except for the ugly dark green oxygen tank that he hated. His cell had bars, like a cage, and at a certain time in the evening a sheet of glass would go directly in front of it from the ceiling, what in prison terms would be lights out. The glass, of course, had holes, in case someone needed to have words with him after hours, or during a lockdown. And right outside was a screen for handprint readings, to unlock the glass and the bars.

Bane stretched. As always, his muscles screamed, crying out for the physical exercise they were used to. But it was hard to exercise when you weren't allowed. It was hard to do anything when the pain was unbearable.

He leaned forward and put his forehead in his hands. It was considerably cold in the asylum, but he would always wake up sweating. He figured it was because he'd been without his mask for so long. His body wasn't used to this anymore. It needed to be taken care of a certain way.

Bane had been at Arkham for four days now. At first he accepted it. But knew that he couldn't be kept here long. There was always a way to get what you wanted. And he definitely wanted out.

And now… Now this place was becoming a considerable waste of time. In all honesty, if he had to be locked up somewhere he'd rather be in Blackgate Prison, or anywhere else. Someone like him did _not_ belong here. This place was for people like Jonathon Crane. At first it was cute, at first it was a time to rest. At first he didn't mind the treatment.

Now it was a nuisance. He was _not _insane. He would _not_ accept being looked upon as crazy.

He would retrieve his mask. He would find a way to get more medicine for his body. And then he would burn this place to hell.

A tap on the bars snapped him out of his fantasy of Arkham in flames and unclenched his fists. Bane looked over and saw the moving crew.

"You got yourself an appointment today, big guy."

Ronnie Pierce was on duty today. He was one of the guards at Arkham who patrolled the levels, making sure everything was shipshape. He was a middle aged man of about 5"10, dark blonde hair that was graying at the temples and receding at the hairline. Bane knew that his shift was mostly all throughout the evening. Seeing him now must mean he was picking up extra hours. In the four nights he'd been here, Bane could see how Ronnie's eyes would grow darker and more sunken. Behind Ronnie was the team that always moved him. Each carried an armory of weapons. Just in case. Bane was in too much pain to care.

But an appointment? Oh yes, Bane remembered, looking down at his hands. He was meeting his _psychiatrist_ today. The shrink that the city of Gotham felt he needed to help heal him, since he was insane, of course. The woman Jeremiah Arkham had mentioned to him. Dr. Lane.

Bane swallowed again and hoped his voice worked when he spoke. "And how long will I be away for this appointment?"

Ronnie shrugged. "Don't know. I'm guessing an hour. Up so we can see 'em, buddy." He placed his hand on the screen, had his prints read, and the bars rose.

Bane swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and grunted as he stood slowly. The pain shrieked from his lower back all the way up his spine. He waited as they shackled him, and wondered why they didn't go with the straightjacket he'd seen all the other patients wearing when they were escorted from their cells.

"Don't forget," Ronnie began, securing the locks. "You're on a week trial for good behavior. Any wrong or suspicious move and it's the straightjacket for you, my friend."

"I'll try my very best to behave, Officer." Behavior wasn't the issue, Bane thought as they began to walk him to wherever he was going. But the pain was. A straightjacket would only make him more uncomfortable.

As they walked down the dark hall, Bane could hear the noises from the other inmates. He casually looked into some of the cells, the most entertainment he had since arriving. It only made him angrier. Some would wail as they walked by, slowly since his back was now throbbing, and some would laugh. Bane lifted a brow when he saw a woman in one cell, lying in her bed seemingly fast asleep. Her lovely red hair looked like fire against the regulation white sheets.

He wondered what she did to end up here.

"Here we are."

Further into the asylum, Ronnie stopped Bane at an office door and opened it with another palm print before leading him in. It was just a boring off-white room, a few motivational posters on the walls, and a desk with a chair on both sides. Bane looked up to the corner of the ceiling, and saw a small security camera. Also inside the room was a little refrigerator.

They sat him down in the chair closest to the door, and brought him his useless oxygen tank.

"Why thank you, gentlemen."

"Yeah, yeah." Ronnie hooked it up with a scowl. "She'll be here any second. Just so you know, we are right outside this door. That camera up there is watching you. And no one gets in or out of this room without a hand print from one of the allowed staff. Don't mess up. I'm too tired today."

Without another word, Ronnie left Bane in the room to wait. He did nothing more than breathe into his stupid oxygen mask.

A few moments later, he heard the faint sound of heels clattering closer. A few words and a laugh were exchanged outside the door, and then it opened. And in she walked. Dr. Camille Lane sat in the chair across from him.

She couldn't have been but a few inches over five feet tall. Her hair was curly and long, the color of it black as a raven to match the eyes and brows. Her skin was pale, and her lips painted a bright pink. She was dressed in a black skirt suit, complete with navy heels on her small feet. Her body wasn't fat or skinny, but exactly how a woman's body should be, in his mind. Around her neck was a small gold cross. He wondered if it helped protect her.

She smiled at him. He just sat there breathing and trying to ignore his pain.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Camille Lane. I would say it's a pleasure to meet you, but you look… grumpy."

Bane almost scoffed. "I'm sure that even if I didn't look this way, you still would not find it a pleasure to meet me, Doctor Lane."

"That's not true. I'm happy that you're starting recovery. Everyone deserves a second chance."

Bane thought he was going to vomit. "I'd prefer it if we got straight to business. I've told Mister Arkham that I don't need or want therapy sessions."

"And it seems to me, Mister Bane," she began as she took out a piece of paper from the folder she'd carried in. "That you don't get to make those decisions. I have the court order right here. Your time here will be much more convenient if you corporate. These sessions won't hurt you. You should be so lucky that you're here and not waiting to be terminated."

A throbbing was starting at his temples. He couldn't do this. He couldn't sit here and chat for an hour, however long they were going to make him come here a week. His back was killing him, his joints felt like they were on fire, and he was still so hot.

Camille looked at him. When she'd walked into the room and seen him sitting there she knew he was hurting. Oh, he hid it well. That impressed her. She wondered if he knew he had a file, one that told them everything. Everything right down to the chronic pain he experienced without his analgesics.

"Mister, Bane –"

"I'll ask you to drop the 'mister'. I'm not feeling in a very cooperative mood today, Doctor. And I'm afraid I have nothing to say to you."

Camille sighed. There were always ways to get someone to talk. That went for psychiatrists as well. And Bane would talk to her. She knew just the right way. She opened her folder again and took out a small baggie. She waited until his eyes met hers, and held it up for him to see. It was a small white pill.

"This is oxycodone. Just one. As you've been told, you're on a week trial. We'll be nice to you if you're nice to us. And you've been given the chance for help. If you really believe you don't need this treatment, then that's fine. But the higher ups think otherwise, and I've been given the job. So just humor me then."

His eyes left the small pill to meet hers. She saw that they were green. And considering.

"Work with me, and I'll give you this."

This woman was foolish, he thought as he stared her down. That tiny thing, that little white fleck of dust to help ease this agony? He could have laughed. But he needed… something. He'd yet to finish out his week trial, and after then he could be offered other medical supplies. Until he could find a way out, find resources, he would have to be at their mercy. Why not take the perks?

"I believe we have a deal, Doctor."

* * *

A few hours later, the sky outside was beginning it's change from grey to black. The asylum would be locked up for the night, and everyone would sleep.

Camille walked out to her car.

Her first session with Bane. The man who brought Gotham to it's knees. The man who almost killed them all. He was her patient. Her very first high profile patient.

When she was told she'd been given the job, Camille didn't know what to think. Weren't there others more qualified than her? She'd only been working with some level one's at the asylum, the ones who were just transferred to prison to carry out the rest of their appointed sentence. Was she really the right person for the task?

The fact that he'd even been sent to Arkham in the first place was a shock. A lot of the city was in an uproar about it. They thought Bane should have been sentenced to death, and then everyone could sleep better at night knowing he was worm food. But he wasn't. And now he was hers.

She'd read the file. She knew exactly how he talked, how he moved, what he looked like even before the file. Everyone did. She herself had even been tucked away in her apartment during the revolution, ready to die with the rest of the city. But then the Batman had saved them all, and Bane was defeated. The city was getting itself right again, trying to go back to the way things were before a mercenary had taken over. And it was doing a pretty good job, she thought.

She'd told him that everyone deserved a second chance. Well, she'd been lying about that one. Or at least a little uncertain. Did he deserve one? She would see. It was her job to figure it out.

Camille began the drive home.

When she'd walked into the room she was a little startled at his appearance. It was one thing to see him on TV, hear him as he paraded around Gotham like a king. But to see him in person, what had become of him, it was something else entirely.

He was much larger than she had imagined. She didn't think she'd ever seen such a large, dominating man before. And when she saw him without his mask, she was a little surprised to see that he was actually handsome. He had scars, lots of them, ones that she could visibly see outside his standard gray scrubs, and no doubt more that were hidden underneath. Around his mouth, the place Gotham never saw, was just more of those scars.

Their first session hadn't been very exciting. It was really just for her to introduce herself, tell him a few things, and see if he had anything to say. Not much came from him, but Camille knew that their next session would be different, especially now since she could provide him with medication.

Time would tell, she supposed.

She was almost home. She would put her work on the back burner for now, and just enjoy the peaceful drive.

It was hard to go home. Sometimes she never wanted to. But to keep up her smile and laughs at work every day was exhausting. No one really knew what she had to face at the end of the work day.

Camille had grown up in an abusive home. There were seven of them, her parents, her four brothers and herself. All of them living in a rundown three bedroom house for most of her childhood in the… lesser part of Gotham.

But she'd stayed good. She never involved herself with drugs, or the wrong crowd. She stayed clear of boys who only wanted the one thing everyone talked about, and she tried her very best in school. She'd smiled for her teachers and laughed with the other girls in class. When she became a teenager she'd worked hard at her minimum wage job at a book store after school. When she went home, she went to war.

Her mother ran the house. Not as a wife and mother should, but dictating and controlling their lives to suit her. Her mother had been a very beautiful woman, and her father an average guy. And when her mother started messing around with other men and disappearing, her father lost his mind.

They would fight, verbally and physically. Her father would fight her younger brothers. And her mother…

Her mother always hated her.

Camille could remember the nights she'd stayed awake, just to make sure she'd gotten home safely. Her mother would then scream at her and tell her to mind her own damn business. Camille would try to help her, try to convince her that her ways were wrong, and that she had the responsibility of taking care of her father and brothers. Her mother laughed at her, and turned the others against her.

And before Camille knew it, she was taking care of the entire family.

She would go to school during the day, work at night, all to help feed her parents and brothers. Yes, her father went to work at a construction company, but would refuse to pay the bills just to spite her mother. Everything fell to her shoulders.

People in the neighborhood would whisper about them. _That sad little family in the sad little house on the corner. Did you hear them fighting again last night? Let me tell you about it…_

Sometimes Camille thought she should walk around with a stamp on her forehead that read _sucker_. She'd turned 18 at one point. She could have just left, gotten her own life, and left this one behind. But her father's immaturity would keep her there, her brothers pleas made her stay, and her mother would guilt her to coming back to that sad little house every single night. Yes, we're a family that physically fights with each other, she wanted to tell the people who whispered about them. Yes, we're the ones who fall victim to domestic violence and adultery. Yes, it's happening right now, and you're right, you should turn away when we walk too close and talk behind our backs. Maybe it's contagious. It's found our house. Soon, it'll find yours.

She never said those things out loud, however. She couldn't. She was the last functioning member of her family. She had to hold it together. She had to pretend she could be enough to keep everyone safe and fed.

Camille pulled into her driveway and walked inside her home. She couldn't think these things right now. The past had to wait for tonight. She'd brought work home with her.

It would be a wonderful distraction.

Setting her purse and keys on the table, she opened her briefcase, and pulled out the files, along with another item that clunked onto the tabletop with a _thud_.

"Let's learn all about you, Bane," she murmured, and stared at the item on her table.

The mask could have been scary. But to her it was fascinating. She would learn and she would understand. The mask that had terrified Gotham was with her now. And ready to be studied.

It would be fun.

**TBC**

**A/N: And there she is, my friends. Dr. Camille. Won't she be fun to learn more about? **


	4. Tourniquet

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 4**

**Tourniquet **

"_I tried to kill the pain, but only brought more. So much more." – Evanescence _

A few more days went by, and the week trial was up. He did what he was supposed to do, not that he could do much more because of his withdrawals and pain. But the trial was up, he did good, and got something in return. A few things were given to him this morning, signed and approved by Dr. Fitch from Gotham General and Dr. Lane, of course. He didn't know if the supplies would help. The only thing that truly helped him was his special medicine. But he had to try.

Bane sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his knees. Another patient on his level was obviously having a hard time. Whoever it was would shriek one second, start laughing the next, and finally begin to cry. And the process just kept repeating… for over an hour now. It was taking everything in him to not roar down the hall to quiet the patient.

Only yet another reason to despise this place.

Bane pulled the box closer to his bed and pulled out what they had given him. So far he'd only received a standard back brace, some muscle soothing ointment, and an ice pack.

If Bane had any hope for humanity before, it was then distinguished while holding the ice pack. What the _hell_ was he supposed to do with it once it warmed up?

Standing slowly and trying very hard not to moan, Bane stretched his lower back before wrapping the back brace around his waist over his gray scrubs. He'd much rather his old braces. They'd been made especially for him and did exactly what he needed them to do. This one was just a white piece of fabric and Velcro to him. But, in times like these, he would take what he could get. He wasn't an ungrateful man.

After applying the ointment practically everywhere on his body and holding the ice pack to the back of his neck, Bane started to pace slowly.

Finally the hysterics from the other patient had stopped. Now he could rest and think.

He wished he had some books. He wished he had anything to help pass the time before they came to retrieve him for his next therapy session, anything to take his mind somewhere else, somewhere else other than the two things he was constantly thinking about while locked up in here like an animal at the zoo. His pain, and Talia.

Where was she? Was she alright? Did she need him?

As Miranda Tate, she could have easily been granted access to come visit him. She could have had the excuse of wanting to face her captor, the man who kept her hostage before the Batman had saved her. Certainly she would have thought of that.

But as the days in Arkham Asylum went by, he'd not seen nor heard from her, from anyone. Of course he had questions. Questions like, what had become of the Batman, of Bruce Wayne. And of course, what had happened with the bomb? But those were stupid questions to think about in his mind. The bomb hadn't gone off, so there was no point in torturing himself to try to figure out what exactly had happened. Someone would tell him those things eventually, and he would listen.

But Talia was a different story. Of course he couldn't ask about her. That would just lead to more questions, and eventually some realizations.

He stopped pacing once he heard a familiar voice coming his way. Bane peaked out through the bars and saw the guard Ronnie Pierce getting closer. Bane watched, and saw him on his cell phone. The man was sweating a bit, walking briskly as he rubbed his temple with his other hand. His voice sounded tired and exasperated, and his patience thin.

"I know, honey. I'll try to make it during my lunch break. Yes, I know. Yes, I _know._ Tell him I love him. Just tell him, Sarah. Thank you. Bye."

He stopped in front of Bane's cell and sighed before closing his cell phone and shoving it into his uniform pocket.

Bane watched him still, and didn't move his eyes even when the guard saw him staring.

Ronnie gave Bane a look and practically spat out his next words. "Got all your presents?"

Bane patted the back brace around his waist. "I'm sure I'll find them satisfactory, Officer."

Ronnie scoffed. He obviously wasn't pleased that he'd been given supplies to try to help him. Bane decided this was one of the more bitter residents of Gotham City when it came to his health. "You don't deserve treatment."

"As I keep being informed, it's not my choice on what I do and don't receive. Everything seems to be decided for me at this point."

Ronnie walked closer to the bars, his expression almost glaring. "Do you know what you've done to this city? To it's people?"

Bane regarded him, and walked closer to the bars as well, satisfied when the smaller man stepped back some as he towered over him. "I'm not sure. Would you care to enlighten me? I've been out of commission for some time now."

Ronnie frowned at him, and radioed for the rest of his team so they could move him.

Bane wrapped his large hands around the bars. "I did nothing to this city that it didn't already deserve."

"There are good people here too. People that don't make the News headlines. Innocent lives that you've ruined."

Bane stared at him as the rest of the cavalry appeared with their weapons and shackles, and wondered what _innocent_ life Pierce was thinking of.

"There are no innocent lives in this city," he answered softly.

* * *

Bane dropped the useless ice pack onto the table as he sat, waiting for Dr. Lane so they could start their next session together. The pack had warmed up, the muscle ointment had ceased its cooling effect, and he kept having to readjust the back brace, since the size of his waist kept stretching it, making it loose.

It was treatment in the pit all over again. Never helping, only making things worse.

He heard a beep and the door behind him open, then close again with a loud bang.

He watched as Camille sat in her chair across from the table they shared. She was wearing black dress pants and a dark blue button down shirt today. Her hair was wild and curly, just as it had been the first day he met her, and her lips painted the color of coral. She gave him a smile that reached her black eyes, and unpacked a few files from her briefcase.

"Good afternoon, Bane. How are you doing?"

He sucked in a big gulp of oxygen before answering her, already annoyed. "I'm doing well, Doctor. As well as can be."

She lifted a brow. "You received some medical supplies this morning. Are you not happy with them?"

"I'm not ungrateful," he replied simply.

"Hmm." She looked at him a little more, then moved her eyes down to the ice pack sitting on the desk. She picked it up, opened the tiny refrigerator next to her and set it inside. "That won't take long to cool. I know it seems silly to give you that while you're mostly in your cell and not able to access a cooling system, but it should help to some extent."

"How nice of you."

She crossed her legs under the table. "So, as we established last time, you work with me and I'll provide you some more relief. Is that still valid?"

"I suppose so, Doctor."

"Tell me why you're in a bad mood."

Bane smiled slightly and rubbed his dry lips. "You're very direct. I like that. It will make this pointless time go by faster."

"I'm trying to help you."

"No one _wants_ to help me. Your only incentive is your paycheck and a good story. Just like the surgeons at the hospital."

Camille tilted her head to the side and frowned. "Did they tell you that?"

"They told me the truth. I don't blame them, of course."

Camille sighed, then retrieved the ice pack out of the refrigerator and handed it to him.

"Thank you."

"That's what I'd like to discuss today. Your injuries and your recovery, if that's alright with you." She grabbed a pencil from her supplies and a tape recorder. "You understand that this has to be recorded for my notes?"

He nodded as he held the ice pack onto his chest. "Of course it does."

"Good." She pressed a button. "Dr. Camille Lane interviewing patient 0977, Bane."

He watched her as she scribbled something onto paper, and studied her complexion. "Are you Italian?"

She continued writing. "We're discussing you, not me."

"I've been locked up with no one to talk to. All I ever hear are the other patients when they're having a bad day. Intelligent conversation with another will only help in my rehabilitation, will it not?"

She looked at him as she considered. Psychiatrists had to be careful with these issues nowadays. But she knew the precautions for something like that. "I suppose you're right. My family does come from Italy. I just missed out on the olive skin tone down the line."

Bane moved the ice pack to his right shoulder. "Lane isn't an Italian last name, I believe."

"No, it's not. Enough small talk now. Last year, police and paramedics found you severely injured some time after a war broke out on the highway. We understand that you were leading one side of that war. Do you remember what happened to cause your injuries?"

Bane could remember very little. He remembered that time was almost up. He remembered that the Batman was no longer a threat to him and the plan. And he remembered Talia walking away, the last time they were ever going to see each other. And then…

He clenched his teeth together as the memory came, faintly, but there.

"That cat woman. She had a very fancy toy."

Camille slowly nodded and noted his anger. "That's right. Witnesses tell of a woman dressed in a 'cat suit', who they believe is the same woman who robbed many others and is connected to a kidnapping case. But as of today they have no other information other than those witnesses. She shot you with a canon attached to a vehicle that was believed to belong to the Batman."

He wondered if he should give them the name of said 'cat woman'. He knew that Selina Kyle's main objective was to retrieve an item of John Daggett's that never seemed to exist in the first place. But apparently, it did exist. All information about her had been wiped away. Wouldn't it be lovely to give them everything that had disappeared magically? He could destroy her clean slate.

But it had no benefit to him. He was labeled insane anyway.

"You were immediately taken to the hospital. A good number of police had to restrain some civilians. They thought you should rot exactly where you were struck down."

"Is that supposed to sadden me, Doctor Lane?" His body heat was up way too high. The ice pack had melted again.

"No. It's supposed to give you some insight. You underwent a number of surgeries to save your life. For safety of the city, your mask and its contents were taken from you. Would you have recovered more quickly with it?"

"I can't say for sure." He handed her the ice pack so she could freeze it again. "But I would be feeling a lot better if I had it now."

To his surprise, she smiled, her coral lips spreading across her pale face. "I'm sure you would. Sadly, I can't provide you that. Your surgeries took about a year to finish due to how… medically wrong your body was, which we will discuss further later on. You were kept under sedation most of the time. Do you remember anything during your recovery?"

"Very little."

She nodded. "Okay. Afterwards, you had some infections. Your incisions started to swell. You had an increase of redness, and blisters around the surgical sites which would bleed. You would flinch every time they would examine you, which indicated extreme tenderness to the area."

"All this information is useless to me. This all sounds more like an interrogation than a therapy session."

She frowned. "You don't want to know what happened to you?"

"It has no benefit."

Camille watched him. He looked very uncomfortable. He was sweating slightly, even with his ice pack. She could see the little beads of sweat on his hairless head. Was this a reaction from being without his medication? She noted it down, then glanced at her outline. "Do you wish to know what happened to the bomb?"

Her eyes met his green ones. Finally, an interest other than the pills she could supply him with.

"I suppose it would be interesting to know." This time he placed the ice pack on his thigh, and hoped they were almost done so she could give him another pill.

"The city was unsure whether or not it would go off. You spoke of Gotham surviving, of enduring. But eleven minutes after you were struck down, the nuclear bomb was discovered and taken over the bay. Everyone cheered when they saw the mushroom cloud."

Bane leaned forward a bit and stared deeply into her eyes. He waited to see the hate for him, the hate of letting the people down and wondering if he'd planned to set the bomb off anyway, wondering if that had been his intention all along. He looked into her black eyes and expected the lashing, the wish that he had died that day with many others.

But he saw none of that, only the curiosity of what he would say next, and how he would react to her words. How interesting.

"Whatever happened to the Batman?" he asked hoarsely, and swallowed the fire back down his throat.

She kept his intense gaze, and decided to tell him the truth of that day. "The Batman took the bomb over the bay. He saved us all."

Bane smiled slowly in the quiet room, the skin at the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly. He could almost hear her heart beat. "How gallant of him."

"Does that make you happy? Knowing that Gotham's only true shining example sacrificed himself for a city you apparently deem unworthy of surviving? Of enduring?"

"That, my dear, does not surprise me at all."

Bane sat back, and reached down to readjust his back brace yet again. His smile stayed in place. "We'll have to talk about the body count sometime. I'm sure there are some very interesting names on that list."

"Are you implying that the name of the Batman's real identity is on there?"

"I never made any inclination to know such a thing."

Camille made some more notes. She had to admit that she was anxious to hear his answers to questions all of Gotham still had, even after a little over a year. She supposed she should feel uneasy about the answers, but only found herself with more selfish questions. People fascinated her. Especially the interesting ones, the ones the world locked away. When she looked back at him, she could see his energy draining. She reached into a small pocket in her shirt, and drew out another oxycodone. A deal was a deal. She saw his green eyes brighten ever so slightly.

Before she gave it to him, however, she wanted to know something else. "You gave this city hope after you took over, hope that they would live. Some citizens actually enjoyed what had become of their home. But I can't help but wonder if what eventually happened was just part of the plan all along."

Bane took a deep breath. His eyes studied her before answering. Her lashes were coated in mascara, making them just as black as her hair. Her cheeks had the slightest pink coloring, but barely recognizable over the paleness of her face. His eyes wondered down to her lips, and he wondered what she had been doing when he'd been giving Gotham their false hope.

"I'm afraid, Doctor Lane, that it was always my intention of setting fire to Gotham City."

Slowly, she nodded. And placed the small white pill into his very large hand.

**TBC**

**A/N: Anyone want to make a grateful gal a cool avatar for this story? Everyone else has one except me… Thanks a bunch, and please review! **


	5. Fire and Ice

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 5**

**Fire and Ice**

"_Bury all the memories, cover them with dirt. Where's the love we once had? Our destiny's unsure." – Within Temptation_

It was an interesting piece of equipment, Camille thought as she stared at the object sitting on her dining table in her little apartment. Her eyes recognized the brilliance of the workmanship of Bane's mask, the glory of it. But she frowned, instinctively burying admiration under… Well, she didn't quite know what to bury it under. To her, it was beautifully conceived and executed. Maybe she should have hated it on sight, but she didn't. She was a curious woman, a professional one at that. And to help the man she had to understand his life. And everything that came with it.

Bane's now infamous mask was large, much like the man who had worn it. It was heavy to her. She couldn't imagine wearing it every hour of every day. But if it did for Bane what they were told, then he'd had no other choice. Sitting in one of the two chairs that went to her little table she turned the mask around to examine the back. Although she felt like she'd already done this fifty times over, she put both her thumbs in the appropriate area and popped the small hatches open. The small openings no doubt carried the medicine he needed to kill the pain, but they were empty now.

What was left of the medicine was sitting in her refrigerator in two small canisters.

Camille turned it back to face her, and studied the spider-like tubes. With enough force they could be popped out. One had been slightly damaged, but during her many examinations of it she'd fixed it. She was surprised that it was almost fully intact even after he'd been shot. And why she fixed it, she had no idea.

The proportions were perfect. The smallest details of it were stunningly depicted. She noted everything down onto a yellow pad next to her. Idly, she ran a thumbnail over the metal, and noted how thick it was. She picked it up.

_Let me look through your eyes,_ she thought. And placed it on her head.

Her heart gave one hard thud against her ribs when the mask went over her face. It went a lot lower than it would have obviously been on Bane. Her top lip was visible even before the mouthpiece began. Holding it up, she placed it over her mouth and held it there. She took a few breaths.

This is how he lived, she thought. She looked around her apartment with the mask held over her lips.

It was nothing special. Her home was located in one of the busier parts of Gotham, but far enough away from the part of town she'd grown up in. The part where children shouldn't go home to everyday. It was small, merely a one bedroom/one bathroom apartment of the fourth floor of her complex. She only rented, so instead of a color she loved she had to make do with the beige walls.

Maybe she could have afforded something bigger, and maybe she could have owned it. But she was content here. She was away from her family here, and away from everyone else.

Taking the mask off, she placed it back down, and made a few more notes before her phone started to ring. She couldn't help the little twinge of anxiety that raced through her every time the phone rang. Why was someone even calling her at seven in the morning right before she had to leave for work?

"Hello?"

"Hey, honey. Quick question, then you can go back to the crazy people."

Camille bit her bottom lip. She stared at the pattern the sun made as it slipped through her one window in her kitchen and onto the floor. Of course he had to call her now. Of course he had to ruin her morning.

Jackson Lane's voice was smooth. He had a great phone voice, she'd always thought so before. Now, it gave her shivers she didn't want, and an ache that never fully went away. Seeing him perfectly in her head, dark and sleek, with eyes like melted chocolate and a smile that radiated charm, she swallowed. And then wondered if he had his glossy, long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, or if it fell over his shoulders. Quickly, she shook her head, and dreaded the conversation.

She both loved and loathed her ex-husband's voice.

"Jackson, I'm busy. I'm just about to leave."

"The Asylum can wait for just one second, can't it, sugar? I need you."

Frowning, she slumped back down into her chair, and gave up. And absolutely hated the little lurch in her chest, the one that fluttered every time he called. "What is it?"

"I need you to puppy-sit Lucky for me. I need to go out of town for a gallery meeting tomorrow, and my mom canceled. And, damn, Camille, I just cannot potty train him for the life of me. Can you do it? Please?"

With one hand holding the phone to her ear and the other now propped up on the table holding her head, Camille frowned some more. "I can't, Jackson. Bring Lucky with you. People love puppies, they won't mind."

"I can't do that. Please, baby?"

"Stop calling me those names, for the last time. I'm not allowed to have dogs, Jackson. I'm not even a dog person to begin with. Plus, I have work."

She heard him scoff. "Yeah, trying to fix that lunatic who completely fucked this city. You shouldn't even be doing that in the first place. What on earth can you possibly be talking about?"

Camille sighed and rolled her eyes. She'd already had a few sessions with Bane. But unfortunately, the last time he'd really talked with her was when she'd told him about the Batman. Ever since then, she hadn't been getting much more out of him. She still supplied him with one oxycodone after every session twice a week, since he'd give her just enough conversation to earn it. She figured that was his whole plan all along anyway. She tried to talk to him about his plan to destroy Gotham, and what he'd been going through mentally during it. She tried to get him to open up about his defeat. But he would only say a few words here and there. It made her job harder, but even knowing that, she couldn't blame him.

She could tell the pain was getting worse for him as the days went by. And she knew she couldn't really do anything about it.

She wouldn't discuss Bane with her ex-husband. "I have to go, Jackson. I can't watch your dog."

He sighed dramatically. "Camille, why do you do this to me? Alright then. Have a good day with the behemoth who should be burning in hell."

He laughed at her when he could practically see her glaring.

"And I'm sure you look beautiful today, cupcake. Don't miss me too much while I'm gone, okay?"

She hated it, but she softened. And gripped the phone in her hand.

"Love ya, baby. Bye."

She sat there with the phone still in her hand as she heard the dial tone. Why did he do this to her? Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

"I love you too," she murmured, and grabbed her things so she could leave.

She locked her door, leaving behind Bane's mask for more studying later, and pulled on her black suit jacket.

Camille headed for her car, trying to shake off the mood Jackson's call had put her in. She knew it was useless to simply think wishing it would make her feelings go away. Only one thing helped. And for times like these, when Jackson would make her chest ache, she took that help.

She reached into her purse and opened a prescription pill bottle. After shoveling a Lexapro into her hand, she downed it and began her drive to work.

* * *

She knew she was running late, knew that Bane was waiting for her in the small white room where they had their sessions. Before getting out of the car and retrieving her briefcase, Camille adjusted her black skirt suit and reapplied her red lipstick.

She needed her armor.

After smacking her lips together she practically ran in her pumps all the way into Arkham. The effects of her depression medication had kicked in, and she was feeling somewhat okay now.

She hated that she needed the pills at times, hated knowing that they were the only thing to stop the immense sadness that would take her over. But when you had an abusive mother and ex-husband you couldn't seem to shake from life or heart, you had to have something.

She'd met Jackson Lane at nineteen. She'd still been living at home, right in the war zone, thinking that a boyfriend, or any kind of love was far, far away. Of course love wasn't for her. She had a family that hated each other to deal with, a mother that despised and used her, and a life going nowhere. Who could love her?

When she'd been nineteen, she'd fallen in love with the handsome aspiring painter. She'd fallen in love with the man, with his college professor parents, and with the life she could have outside her sad little home. When she'd turned twenty, already into her college courses to escape her prison, she'd married Jackson Lane. He held the stars in her eyes. He'd given her the moon.

He'd saved her from her family, from her mother, and took her away.

It was one of the reasons why she couldn't get rid of the love she still carried for him.

She'd loved Jackson more than life. But three years after they'd been married, he'd divorced her simply because he didn't love her anymore.

Now Jackson Lane was a well-known painter in Gotham, the man invited to every serious social event because of his work and his parent's name. And she'd become a psychiatrist, because it was the broken instead of the wealthy and successful she could identify with most.

She stopped outside the door to the room she knew her patient was behind, and tried to push back the next wave of sadness the pill wasn't helping with now. She couldn't do this, she had a job to do. Taking a deep breath, she placed her palm on the scanner, and walked in to deal with someone else's troubles instead of her own.

Bane watched her with his green eyes as she walked around the table to her seat, her usual greeting to him forgotten. She was frowning, and hadn't looked at him yet as she unloaded her papers. Her black curls were more tousled than usual, probably from the wind that he could hear howling outside his cell, or from her nervous hands. He wondered what was bothering his doctor.

She felt his eyes on her and met them. Every time she would see him he looked paler than before. She couldn't decide if it was from being hidden from the sun, or his pain. His eyes looked so sleepy. She knew he wasn't sleeping at night, but had yet to get the clearance to give him some medication for that. Inside, she knew she'd never get that clearance. He was sweating again, and as she did every session, she froze his ice pack for him and checked his oxygen tank.

"Tell me why you aren't sleeping."

He placed the ice pack on the back of his neck and winced slightly. "There's so much to think about, Doctor Lane."

"And what do you think about at night?"

She knew he wouldn't answer her. He just sat there, taking his big deep breaths. She made a note of his complexion after setting out the tape recorder.

"Dr. Camille Lane, interviewing patient 0977, Bane." She hated that her voice sounded bored. She had to get it together.

"What seems to be troubling you, dear Doctor?" he asked her calmly.

"I'm fine. Just… forgot my coffee."

Bane made a small grunt in his throat as he stared at her. "You shouldn't drink that poison. It becomes addicting to the body."

Camille looked back at him, then surprised herself when one corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. How funny that was, coming from a man who was withdrawing from analgesics. He didn't smile back.

"And what shall we be discussing today?" he asked her, one hand slowly rubbing his head.

Camille shook her head again. She needed to put her game face on. "I'd like to tell you about Gotham today. And get your feelings on the matter."

"I have many feelings concerning this lovely city," he murmured, and chucked the already melted ice pack onto the table in front of her.

"Naturally, we have a new mayor now. He seems much more involved than our… previous one." She glanced at him then, and saw him staring at the table. She noted his shallow breathing. "Commissioner Gordon is still working. He's trying his best to get the city back to where it was before you came."

"Ah, so the streets aren't as clean as they used to be then."

Camille didn't say that even though the police thought they were doing good, Gotham's streets would never be clean. Especially only a year after a revolution. "The city was rebuilt quite nicely. They have a long way to go, though. The government just keeps telling us that we have to be as normal as possible. Do normal things as often as we can. They just started hosting professional sports games here again. And we'll be having a big Fashion Week."

"Honestly, Doctor, all this talk is just boring. To put it simply, I don't care, nor do I want to hear about it."

Trying not to sigh, she nodded. After a few sessions, Camille knew Bane was a guy who meant what he said, and said what he meant. There was no fighting for answers with him. But she knew that he was aware that if he didn't give her something she was satisfied with, he wouldn't be given his oxycodone.

She looked at his face, at the faint scars around his surprisingly full lips. She remembered feeling the mask on her own head, and imagined him with it on now. "Who constructed your mask?"

Bane rubbed his cracking lips together. "I don't remember."

She reached for her purse underneath the table. "Do you remember how old you were when you first put it on?"

"No."

She gave him a look before retrieving a small tube from her purse. "So far you aren't winning any prizes today, Bane." She held the tube out to him.

He looked down at her pale hand. "What is that?"

"It's chap stick. I picked some up for you yesterday. I can't sit here anymore and let you destroy your lips like that."

He stared at her like she should be the one getting treatment. "And why would you do such a thing for me? Even something as little as that?"

"Because you're my patient, and it's my job to take care of you."

His eyes looked at her hand, and slowly he reached to take the tube. "You intrigue me, Doctor Lane. And you seem to have quite the little obsession when it comes to lip care." He lifted his oxygen mask and rubbed some of the chap stick on. It might have been silly and insignificant, but at this point he would take anything to soothe him. "Yours are painted a different color every day."

Camille rubbed her red lips together and ignored his comment. "As I said before, so far you aren't getting anything from me today. And that's your fault."

"It is your fault for not giving me a question I want to answer."

"Will you tell me about your accent?"

"That is a pathetic question."

"Alright," she huffed, exasperated with two men now. "We told you in the beginning it was up to you if you wanted us to help you medically. I guess today you don't want that help. And I'm not in the mood to try and guess what you'll answer and what you won't."

She sat back and crossed her arms. She knew maybe it wasn't the most professional gesture, but she could only help him if he helped her. And he hadn't been doing his part. She found herself wanting to give him the pill. Even after all he'd done, he was still her patient now. She didn't want him suffering when he could be getting treatment. She wanted to help rehabilitate him, so he could serve his sentence out. But trying to get him to open up was exhausting. And she didn't have it in her today.

"I was born in the Caribbean."

His voice was low, but still audible. Her eyes flicked up to his, and they stared at each other with understanding. He wanted the pill. And she could provide him one. He decided to do his part, after all.

"I guess that can explain the accent. Where in the Caribbean?"

"I don't remember."

She knew he was uncomfortable, knew that he was losing strength and energy. She saw him hide it well when the other staff members would take him back to his cell or bring him food. But in here, he didn't hide as much. Or maybe she could just see better than the others. She knew what pain looked like.

When his eyes met hers again she smiled at him, then looked down at her pad to make some more notes.

Bane's eyes dropped down to her lips as he rubbed his together. They were red like blood today. He stretched back his shoulders, felt a pop between the shoulder blades that he tried not to wince from, and placed the newly cooled ice pack onto his scorching throat. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" he murmured.

She continued writing. "I'm sorry?"

He looked at her black curly hair, then again at her red lips. "You resemble Snow White."

She stopped writing midsentence, and lifted her eyes to his slowly.

"Hair black like a raven and lips as red as blood. It suits you. Out of all the colors you wear on your mouth, this one is my favorite."

He heard her breathing stop for a moment, then resume as she began to pack up her things.

"I'm afraid I have to end our session now, Bane."

He lifted a brow. "And why is that? It's still early."

She gave him an annoyed glance as she continued to pack up. "Precautions. Have a good night."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Doctor Lane."

Camille was just about to rise from her seat and call for Ronnie to bring Bane back to his cell when she saw his face. He would have let her end early and watch her leave, but the fact that he seemed very confused had her setting her things back down.

"Um… We have to be prepared for these kind of things. You know? Comments like those aren't taken lightly anymore. Not here."

"I didn't realize that compliments were against the rules."

She sighed softly. "They are now," she muttered.

"Hmmm. Can I ask why?"

She knew that he'd been absent from the world for quite some time. But did he really not know what had happened during his recovery? Had he not heard? She found it a little hard to believe that someone didn't know about Arkham Asylum's dirty little secret. Everyone knew.

"Does the name Harleen Quinzel mean anything to you?"

"No. Should it?" He smiled slightly at her expression. "I'm afraid I have not been in Gotham long enough to know many names. Who is this Harleen and why has she been brought up?"

Camille looked at him for a while. She was debating whether or not she should be talking about this subject with Bane. Dr. Arkham didn't like it being discussed. He'd rather it be shoved under the rug and forgotten. But for whatever reason, Camille thought she should share. She glanced down and saw the tape recorder was still on. It might be good for her notes.

"She worked here once," Camille began, scooting her chair closer to the table and settling in. "She was a psychiatrist."

"Like you."

Camille grimaced some. But reminded herself that Bane didn't yet know the details. "Yes, like me. Dr. Harleen Quinzel. Everyone was really excited when she came to work here." She took the tube of chap stick from him and put some on her own lips. "I was told that she was handpicked by Jeremiah Arkham. She was very beautiful. Blonde, athletic, and intelligent. She wanted to write a big tell-all book. She wanted her name known by everyone when she helped rehabilitate Gotham's worst." She met his eyes then. "Her first patient ended up being Gotham's very worst."

He was a good listener, but she already knew that. His eyes seemed to take in every inch of you, every word when you were speaking to him. She wondered if it was a good trait to have when you led a big band of ruthless mercenaries. His intense gaze alone could get him what he wanted.

"The Joker," Camille continued, and saw that even Bane seemed to think that had been a bad idea. "They gave a young girl practically fresh out of school the Joker as her first patient. I understand that she fought for him, but they should have used better judgment. It didn't take very long for her to start showing… signs. She'd only been treating him for three months. We tried to give her some help, she refused it. Another doctor tried speaking with the Joker, but he wouldn't say a word. He only would speak to Harleen. Then, we really started questioning things when the janitor reported that he'd seen them kissing."

The story gave her shivers. She could remember how young and seemingly innocent Harleen had been, and how… well, adorable. But even Camille could see that something had been getting progressively different with her. Bane stayed quiet, and just listened.

"One night, she broke in after hours. She shot all the guards with a rifle, and freed the Joker from his cell. They escaped together, and she hasn't been seen since." Camille absently picked up a lock of her hair and started twisting it. "We found out later that he'd been seducing her the whole time, and she totally bought into it. The Joker drove one of our own to insanity. So now," she murmured, meeting his eyes again. "Psychiatrists have to have a different kind of protection. We have to end any session that feels like it'll start heading into the area of inappropriate." She rubbed her red lips together. "You shouldn't say those things to me."

He tilted his head to the side slightly. "Why? Because I'm a man?"

"To be honest, because you're an intelligent, attractive man who knows how to use his words. Just like the Joker."

Slowly, Bane smiled at her. "And are you comparing me to him, as someone capable of twisting your mind in the form of seduction? Or are you comparing yourself to Miss Quinzel, a young woman so impressionable and on the brink of her own psychosis that she falls completely victim to it?"

He enjoyed her anger as she glared at him. Apparently, this was a tough subject for everyone who worked here, especially the ones who had problems of their own. "I am nothing like Harleen Quinzel. You're right about her. We came to discover that she was screwed up enough in the head even before the Joker that it only took that one little shove to drive her insane. She only needed pretty words and a handsome face. And she was weak. But I can assure you, Bane, that I am not so gullible. I'm not screwed up."

He laughed softly at her and wanted to pat her on her curly head. "My dearest Camille, we are _all_ screwed up."

**TBC**

**A/N: Tom Hardy said that he based Bane's voice off some brawler guy, and Bane's Caribbean roots from the comics. So that's what I went with. And of course Harley has to be mentioned if therapists and Arkham are involved in a story. It's just not done any other way, my friends. Please review, guys! I need them. **


	6. Nemo

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 6**

**Nemo**

"_Oh, how I wish for soothing rain. All I wish is to dream again. My loving heart, lost in the dark." – Nightwish_

The sky shimmered with a cold, gray dawn. Restless, dark, and full of sound, Gotham started to wake into the raw and bitter air. It was starting to get cold again. Camille had always preferred the cold to the scorching summers, not caring much for sweating and the sun burning her sensitive skin. And of course, she thought, letting her inner girl come out, you got to wear cuter shoes in the fall and winter. Flip flops in the summer always made her stumble.

Camille stretched out on her bed with her hands behind her head, the covers off her body as the sun rose outside, and watched her ceiling fan circle and circle above her.

She'd slept poorly, tangled in dreams she blamed on thoughts of her ex-husband as much as her aching lower back. She didn't care much for dreaming. For her, dreams always brought her to the past. And the past always brought her to her depression medication. It was still dark when she'd given up on sleep, and thought about rising from her full-sized bed and making coffee before heading to work for the day. Instead, she chose to lounge and think about her patient.

After she'd told him about Harleen Quinzel, the sessions with Bane afterward had become uneventful. She didn't know if it was because he just didn't have anything he wanted to share with her, or because his pain was getting worse and he just didn't have it in him. During one session, when she'd been trying to get him to tell her about the men in his army of mercenaries and how he went about choosing them, he'd actually started falling asleep. Camille had to lightly pat him on his cheek as his head started to droop.

He still wasn't sleeping, and Dr. Arkham still wasn't allowing her to prescribe him medication to help with that. It angered her that she had to get his permission to supply her own patient with medication she would have allowed. But when it came to certain decisions regarding Bane, Jeremiah wanted to steer the way himself. Camille knew he was in it for the glory, for the recognition of dealing with Bane the way the city would have wanted him dealt with. And knowing that left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She was a smart and reasonable woman. She knew that Bane couldn't just be given a stern talking to, maybe serve some time and then released to live out the rest of his days. She knew that Bane was a mass murderer, a mercenary and a manipulator that almost destroyed them all. And she knew that even if rehabilitation worked for him, that he would still be locked up for the rest of his life, as he deserved to be for his crimes.

But she was also a professional woman, a doctor devoted to her trade. And Bane was still a human who deserved treatment. Just as she'd told him, it was her job to take care of him, mentally and, while residing at the asylum she worked for, physically as well. If she couldn't help her own broken mentality and emotions, then she could damn well help others who needed it. It was why she'd gotten into the profession to begin with.

Now, her patient wasn't sleeping, he was in pain, and she could only do so much. Those reasons alone were affecting her case with him.

Her thoughts drifted back to the discussion they'd had about Harleen and the Joker, and Bane smiling softly at her as he tried to relieve some of his pain with the pathetic supplies they'd given him.

"Are you afraid you will end up like her?" he'd asked.

Camille had blinked at him as she processed his words. Was she? She knew that the whole ordeal with Harleen had no doubt freaked her out some. Everyone had been disappointed and a little unnerved about it. So many thoughts had run through the staff's minds. Could it have been anyone? And if so, was the mind really that fragile in the hands of someone like the Joker? "I suppose what frightens me is that I could be put in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Ah, but you yourself stated that Miss Quinzel was weak. Do you fear that if put to the test, you won't have the strength to defend yourself, the way you feel Harleen should have?"

She really didn't want to discuss Harleen with Bane. He was only just hearing of the story now, he didn't know the hardcore details of it. He hadn't witnessed the whole thing, hadn't seen what had become of her co-worker. "I can only hope that I'm never put in the same position as her. But if I am, I feel that I can prevent myself from becoming a victim." She'd picked up the tape recorder, and held it in her hands so they were doing something. "When we first met you said that you didn't need this kind of help. Are _you_ afraid that you'll end up like the Joker if you stay here much longer?"

Bane had given a little laugh and rolled his eyes. "I've heard a few things about this man. And while I am impressed that he could corrupt a man such as the once beloved Harvey Dent, I don't think I could ever find myself becoming so… outrageous."

"You share the same level at the asylum as the Joker did. How does that make you feel knowing that you, too, are associated with the outrageous when you obviously feel like you aren't?"

He'd directed his intense gaze at her yet again. "The difference between myself and a man like the Joker is that when he is brought back here, he is only returning home. I do not belong here."

Camille shivered on her bed and decided now was as good a time as any to get up and head to work. She had to organize her notes and recordings, and finish the outline for today's session with Bane.

She dressed in a simple dark green dress, pairing it with a light black sweater and matching heels. After painting her lips a nude color and grabbing her things, Camille locked up her apartment, almost making it out to the bitter wind when a small voice behind her had her turning.

Mrs. Spinelli, an eighty-four year old widow and her neighbor a couple doors down the hall from her stood outside her own entrance. Dressed in her usual morning housecoat and slippers, she lifted a bony hand to grab Camille's attention. "Camille, dear, do you know where my newspaper is?"

Camille gave her a small smile. She didn't know how many times she'd told the older woman that the reason why she never got her paper anymore was because she'd stop paying the bill. She didn't have the energy this morning after a restless sleep to explain to her yet again. "I'm not sure, Mrs. Spinelli. Maybe the paper boy forgot again? You know how young kids are these days."

Mrs. Spinelli shook her head in agreement. "Lazy, I tell you."

"I'll bring over a newspaper for you when I get home this evening."

The older lady smiled sweetly. "How sweet you are, dearie. Oh, and, Camille, my nephew will be stopping by later to visit me. He's a lawyer and he's single. Would you like me to give him your phone number? I'm sure he'd love to take you out dancing."

Camille gave her a big toothy grin even as she cringed inside. "Oh, no thank you. But please tell him I said hello." And please stop trying to set me up with every single man you know, lady. I can't dance, anyway. "I have to go to work now, Mrs. Spinelli. Have a good morning."

"Camille, dear! Happy birthday."

Camille smiled wide at her again and nodded before scurrying away to her car before the older woman could auction her off to the next available man. And thought about how it was amazing what the senior community remembered, and what they didn't. Like forgetting you weren't paying for the newspaper you looked for each morning, and remembering a neighbor's birthday.

She threw her things onto the front passenger seat, then made her way over to the driver's side of her little white car.

She spotted the note under her windshield wiper, and instantly picked it up to read with a frown.

_He deserves to die! You can rid him of us so easily! If you don't, prepare for your fall! Kill the monster Bane! _

Camille lifted an eyebrow. What kind of moron did something like this? To scare her? To think she'd actually do what this crazy person wrote here? What an idiot. Who on earth knew she was treating Bane anyway? Crumbling up the old piece of paper, she threw it to the ground.

But couldn't stop the chill that ran up her spine.

* * *

The streets were busy from construction, and Camille hated traffic. It gave her unwanted anxiety. As she sat in her car, waiting and listening to the radio – even though she hated mainstream music nowadays – she considered what she would buy herself for her birthday.

Her birthdays had just become another day of the year. The only time it hadn't been viewed that way was when she'd first married Jackson. Absently she smiled softly to herself, and remembered when Jackson had taken her to Italy for her first birthday with him. She'd had a great time, and blended well with the locals. They knew she was Italian right off the bat, whereas Jackson had a more New England complexion. The trip had been fun, exciting, and romantic. They'd even tried making a baby.

Camille could remember how desperately she'd wanted to have Jackson's baby.

She sighed in the car as she inched along the highway, feeling herself sinking again. When her cell phone rang, she could have kissed whoever was on the other line for the distraction. Looking at the screen, she saw that it was work.

"Dr. Lane."

"Good morning, Camille. It's Ronnie. How's the traffic out there?"

Checking, she finally saw a break and zipped over to the next lane to pass some of the waiting cars. Good thing she was a city girl. "Horrible. But at least the last bridge is almost complete. Is there a problem at the asylum?"

She heard him sniff loudly over the phone and sigh. He must have been there all night patrolling again. She could practically feel his exhaustion. "Not really a problem, but… I know you're running late, but I wanted to get the big guy ready and in the session room for you once you got here. But he refuses to leave his cell."

Camille drew her brows together in confusion. "What do you mean Bane won't leave his cell? What's wrong with him?"

"I'm looking at him right now. He's just lying in his bed. Half the time he ignores me, and once he told me that he regrettably has to cancel his session for today. I wanted to call you first. I can always get my guys down here and force him. Did you cancel today's appointment?"

Camille held the phone to her ear, and slightly stepped further on the gas pedal. "I didn't cancel anything. Can you tell me how he looks, Ronnie?"

He was silent for a few moments. "He doesn't look good, Dr. Lane. Usually I see him walking around his cell at this time. What do you want me to do? Should I call Dr. Arkham?"

"No," she answered quickly, then cleared her throat. "No, Ronnie, I'm on my way. I'm going to check him out myself."

She heard the hesitation in his voice. "Are you sure that's safe, Dr. Lane? There's a big difference in size here, and he could be faking it. A lot of them fake it."

Camille thought about how he looked after every session, and knew that there probably wasn't much Bane could do right now. "If there's a problem, we'll handle it. But I don't think he's in a position to cause any damage at the moment. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"You're the doctor. I'll get you a panic button."

* * *

_The nights were cold down in the pit. One of the annoyances of the world was that someplace so very hot during the day could be so very cold in the dark, that the rags a man would wear to protect his skin from the sun were to also warm you against the bitter, almost freezing temperatures. But as years went by, you got used to it. As time went on, you adapted. You had to, or you would certainly die. _

_Bane patted the area on his cot next to him and found it empty. His eyes snapped open and he jolted up, scanning his small cell for the only important thing that seemed to be missing. He quickly got to his feet and huffed out a cold breath, watching the air from his lungs float in front of his mouth. Tonight was especially cold, and that made the problem even worse. _

"_Talia?" _

_His voice was stern. He had to be when she disobeyed him. She knew she wasn't supposed to leave without him. It was too dangerous. Sometimes she would cower away when he was tough on her, and sometimes she would talk back. She was growing up more every day, and Bane expected an attitude as she got more comfortable with him. Sometimes, when he had to be stern with her, she would fight him back, in her childlike way. _

_But he knew at times, on nights like these, he had to fight her inner demons for her. _

_He finally spotted her in the very dark corner of the cell they shared. Her tiny form was curled up in itself, her arms hugging her lanky legs to her chest. Her shaved head was buried in her knees, and he saw her slightly shaking. _

_So, he thought, as he grabbed the thin blanket from the cot to bring to her. It would be one of those nights. _

_Crouching down next to her, Bane wrapped Talia in the blanket, and cradled her against his chest. Knowing his body, she instantly leaned against him and slid her arms around his waist. _

"_Please don't cry," he murmured against her hair, holding her, comforting her, knowing he was the only one who could now. _

"_I miss my mother…" Her voice was shaky, and it killed him. Her tears fell from her face and soaked into his dirty shirt that smelled of sweat and grime. _

_He sat fully on the dirt floor and pulled her into his lap. He didn't know what to say to her now when she said this to him. He'd tried everything, but nothing seemed to matter. But how could he possibly explain to a little girl what had happened to her mother? How could he tell her that the only family she'd ever known had been raped and killed by the other hungry and needful prisoners? And how could he tell her that the only thing he did that day was yank her away so the same thing wouldn't happen to her? _

_He couldn't tell her those things. He wouldn't. He would only protect her, keep her safe, and hold her when she had her bad nights crying for the mother she would never see again. _

_Her weeping seemed to stop. He looked down and saw her staring back up at him with her bright, beautiful, innocent eyes. He reached down with his thumb and wiped away a few stray tears from her red cheeks. _

"_Why do you take care of me?" she asked him softly, and leaned her cheek against his chest as she stared up at him, looking every bit the little child waiting for a story at bedtime. _

_Bane had been taking care of little Talia for two months now. The attention of the other prisoners had increased ever since he'd taken the duty on himself. It was exhausting work, but he would do it. He would protect her, and someday get her out of here. _

"_You are my redemption," he answered quietly. _

_She smiled at him, and he felt something in his chest swell, something he hadn't felt in a very long time. Something, he realized, he'd never felt at all. Loving her now, he cradled her closer. _

"_Would you die for me?" she whispered to him, and closed her eyes as he rocked her, the only motion that truly soothed her now._

_His eyes went a little grim, but he spoke gently to her as she drifted off to sleep. _

"_Yes." _

* * *

Bane stared at the wall next to his bed as the memory faded from his mind. He didn't know why he kept having dreams of his past with Talia, whether he was awake or the very few times he could sleep. But they kept coming. And he kept worrying, and wanting her.

He could practically feel her in his arms now, if he closed his eyes and imagined her body. He knew her scent, her curves, her voice, better than he knew his very own. When she'd been a child, and he a young boy of just seventeen, he knew her cries and her wishes, and the way she trembled when she'd have nightmares of the day her mother had been killed. He knew when she was hungry without telling him, and how often her hair grew so he'd have to shave it for her again. He knew what scared her, and what made her smile.

And when she'd grown into a beautiful young woman, and he into a man, he knew what made her sigh softly, the places on her body that would make her shiver when he touched her, and the way she'd look up at him as he rose above her, her hair spread out around her like flowing chocolate.

But he would stay silent. He wouldn't dare bring up her name, no matter how desperately he wanted to ask anyone what had happened to Miranda Tate after Gotham had been snatched back by the people, by the Batman. He was a patient man, and, when it came to Talia al Ghul, patient he would stay.

Bane heard the usual footsteps of Ronnie Pierce coming down the dark hall, and wondered if he would be made to report to his session with Camille. He didn't want to say he enjoyed his sessions with her. After all, there was no point to begin with. He wasn't crazy or having psychological problems, not like the others here. He didn't belong here in the least. But because he was alone all the time, with nothing to hear but other patients and no conversation except for the guards that despised him anyway, therapy with Dr. Camille wasn't all that bad to pass the time.

But not today.

He couldn't even begin to explain his pain. Ignoring it in the silence of his cell wasn't working anymore, and moving was just too much wasted energy. The only thing he forced his body to do was eat. The pain was preventing him from exercising, and he could feel his body losing muscle and fat. The only thing he could do to help himself was to get in as many carbs and proteins as he could. And even that felt like such a chore.

If he didn't keep reminding himself when his thoughts would drift, Bane would feel like he was just back in the pit again, freshly beaten for Talia's escape, and the work the doctor there had done on him just administered.

He needed his medicine. But he couldn't have it. Now, he didn't know how much longer he could survive without it. He didn't think he would.

Another set of footsteps echoed down the hall along with Ronnie's. They were much more brisk, and the feminine sound of heels drowning out the standard _thump_ of Ronnie's uniform shoes getting closer and closer. Bane rolled over onto his back and groaned softly. His back felt like it was made of scorching knives tearing him apart.

He looked over at the bars, and saw Camille standing there looking at him. She had her purse and briefcase along with her, having had rushed to his cell straight from exiting her car, he supposed, and watched him in her pretty dark dress.

Looking at her now, he longer for Talia even more.

"Open the cell for me please, Ronnie."

Bane saw the guard step closer to her, and whisper something in her ear. So, he thought as he watched them, the brave guard feared for the young lady's safety. Bane almost laughed. They couldn't even imagine the uncontrollable pain he was experiencing right now.

Camille had won, and Ronnie opened the cell, but not before handing her a small remote. "I'll be right over there, Dr. Lane. You push that he tries anything."

"Yes, Ronnie, thank you." She waited for the officer to bring her a chair, then pulled it a little closer to Bane's bed after he'd left and locked the cell shut.

She should be feeling very unnerved right about now, Camille thought as she set her things down and sat. She was practically alone with a murderer who probably weighed three hundred pounds in muscle. But oddly, she wasn't. She kept the panic button in her palm just because it felt like routine.

"Good morning, Dr. Lane," Bane greeted her hoarsely, trying to sound pleased that she was there now. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid our time together has to be cancelled for today."

Camille looked him over. She started with his face, which was sweating and pale, his voice breaking every now and then, and moved her eyes down the rest of him. His arms were coated in sheen as well, and scars from the past. "Nonsense, we can have session right here. Tell me how you're feeling."

He looked into her black eyes and tried to smile. "How I feel now would certainly kill you, my dear."

She ignored the endearment, not wanting to have to leave, and softly rested her hand on his forehead. He was burning up. "Are you not taking the oxycodone?"

"Of course, Doctor. It is just not working."

Camille frowned. What could she do to help this man? She couldn't help him mentally if she couldn't help him physically. But Dr. Arkham had forbidden any other medication. She was almost powerless. "I can't give you your previous analgesics."

"Quite understandable."

His voice was so raspy, and his green eyes losing their shine. And she could do nothing. The only thing she could do, however, was talk to him. Pulling out her supplies, she set her notepad on her lap and took out a pencil.

"I've no energy for this today," he told her quietly.

Ignoring him, Camille slid the oxygen mask over his head and cranked it up. Knowing his temperature would be up as well, she'd brought two ice packs with her and placed them on his chest. "I have to do my job."

Bane watched her as she did all this. He'd yet to figure out why she was so attentive, why she didn't look at him as the rest of the city did. It would be interesting to know. And eventually, he would. He didn't want to talk to her about himself, or simply stay quiet. If she had to be here now, he thought it was time to know his doctor a little more.

"How old are you today?" he asked, and breathed deeply.

"I'm sorry?"

"I heard one of the guards mention that it was your birthday today. How old are you?"

"My age is none of your concern, Bane."

He shifted, rolling over onto his side so he could face her. He'd impressed himself when he managed to not make a sound. "I am simply tired, Dr. Lane. I'm tired talking about me. I'm not feeling well this morning, and it is your birthday. For once, can you just indulge in what I want to talk about?"

She studied him for a moment. Her dark brows knit together, and felt a twist in her stomach. She wanted to help him, but he was in so much pain. She could see it. For a while she didn't speak at all, but softly tapped her pencil on her knee. Maybe he needed a break, and maybe she could use something out of the conversation for her notes. Considering all the options, she made a decision.

"I turned twenty-seven today."

He took another big deep breath, one that shuddered slightly. "Twenty-seven. And what will you be doing on your special day?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"No plans?"

"None at all."

"How strange," he commented softly, and moved one ice pack to the side of his neck while the other was placed on his hip. "Are your friends not taking you out?"

Feeling a little reserved now, she answered, "I don't really have friends."

Bane looked down at her dress, at the lush feminine curves underneath. "And what about a young man? Certainly a smart, attractive woman like you has someone to be spoiled by tonight."

At that, Camille frowned, and thought of Jackson. Tall and straight and tanned, his long hair shining as they toured Italy on this day six years before. She sighed at the sorrow of it, at the pain that came with the love for someone who no longer felt the same. And how she'd never let any other young man, as Bane described, take her anywhere or give her anything.

"I'm unattached," she replied, her voice now low.

"Impossible," he murmured, his voice breaking again.

Because they were discussing her nonexistent love life, Camille thought of Harleen Quinzel and the precautions she probably should be taking right now. But because he was in so much pain and seemed to need a distraction for a little while, she ignored the precautions. "I'm divorced," she told him.

Camille saw his eyebrows rise as he breathed through his mouth slowly. "Divorced," he repeated, like it was a strange word. "How saddening. But unfortunately, common in today's world."

Camille tousled her curly hair. When she felt the emotion spurting up, she swallowed it and gave him a dispassionate stare. "That's true. It was a mutual decision." Telling the lie put an ache in her chest. She should change the subject.

She looked down at him and saw him staring at her. Uneasiness started to creep up, but not for her safety. He looked like he was getting worse by the minute. His breathing was shallow, his temperature was up, and his joints looked red and tender. She watched him as he took a few more wheezy breaths before he spoke again.

"I'm sure you are better off… without him."

Feeling a slight anger now, she quickly rose and walked away. He heard her call Ronnie over, then the cell opening and her stomping off in her little heels. Blinking so he could moist his very dry eyes, Bane heard her return a few moments later, wheeling in an IV stand with Ronnie right behind her.

"Dr. Lane, you have no clearance for that. Dr. Arkham said-"

"I know what he said." She blocked out the officer, and started preparing a needle.

Bane looked at her in confusion. "What are you doing?"

She motioned for him to lie on his back. Once he did, she rolled up his scrub sleeve and took his large arm in her hand. His skin was hot to the touch. "There is no reason to let you suffer this way. Regardless of what you've done, you're my patient." She slid the needle slowly into his arm and hooked up the IV tubes. "This will help you sleep for a few hours. After you rest some, we'll continue therapy later this afternoon."

He felt the sleep medication enter his vein, and watched her. "Why are you doing this?"

Looking back at him, she saw his eyelids grow heavy. "You need to sleep. It'll help with the pain."

When his eyes closed completely, she gathered her things, and met Ronnie's disapproving stare.

"You're not supposed to give him unauthorized medication."

She held his stare as she exited Bane's cell, and thought of the threatening note she'd found on her car earlier. Ronnie seemed to be in agreement with whoever had written it. "He's still human. And I wouldn't be if I just let him suffer that way. I wouldn't be a good doctor. But I am a good doctor, and I can give him a few hours of sleep."

"Dr. Arkham doesn't care if he sleeps."

Camille frowned at him as he closed Bane's cell. "Our job is to help these people, Ronnie. Not slowly kill them."

"That's funny. Because last year, he almost killed _you_."

Camille sighed softly and shook her head. She knew better than most how the world only housed bad people. It didn't surprise her in the least how Ronnie felt. People hated each other. That was just the way it was.

"That'll be all, Officer Pierce."

She left him standing there, and returned to her office until her session with Bane would resume later on in the day.

**TBC **

**A/N: What do you guys think of the new image for this story? Isn't it cool? Bane's comment about the Joker only coming back home to Arkham is in reference to what Mark Hamill said in an old trailer for the video game, Arkham Asylum. And boy, for some reason my heart breaks every time I write the flashbacks of Talia. Please review for me, my loves.**


	7. Narcissistic Cannibal

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 7**

**Narcissistic Cannibal**

"_I just want to break this crown, but it's hard when I'm so rundown." – Korn_

It was the returning constant ache that woke him, the pain creeping back up that he still wasn't used to. For one horrible moment, Bane forgot where he was, and sat up as quickly as his body would allow before he was fully coherent.

He discovered that he was still in his cell at the asylum. He was still in his ugly gray scrubs, and was still in horrible pain. But, oddly enough, not as bad as before.

Sleep had evaded him for days. That, added with his chronic pain, had made things a lot worse on his body than what was becoming terribly normal. And when everything slowly started coming back to him, Bane was grateful to have had some forced, and what felt like pain-free sleep. The pain was still there, and would stay there until he was given back his medicine or until he succumbed to it completely, but the sleep had done him good.

Bane looked around and saw that the IV stand had been wheeled out. He could remember now, looking up into Camille's face as she stuck him with the needle that would give him rest, wondering what was going through her mind to have made that type of decision. She'd broken the rules for him, had given him very temporary relief, knowing all he'd done. The rest of the city would have condemned her for such an act, would have asked her harshly why she was working with him to begin with. Bane thought the whole thing interesting. Either she took her vow as a doctor to help _everyone_ very seriously, or there was much more to Dr. Camille Lane than he could expect. Looking down at his arm where she'd punctured him, Bane decided that he would find out which one it was exactly.

Bane rubbed the back of his neck. God, he hated this place. It was almost as gloomy as the sewers he'd resided in while preparing for the revolution. But only in here, he was a prisoner, set on a schedule other than his own, and his body being taken care of by decisions made by officials.

He was not the type of man to simply be content by those facts. Things would change, he mused as he swung his legs to the side of the bed with a soft grunt. They had to, or the pain would definitely win. All he needed was his opportune moment.

Bane looked up as he heard an angry and desperate voice. He saw that it was once again Ronnie Pierce on his cell phone, speaking to whoever was on the other line sternly, but also on the side of defeated. Bane stayed silent when he realized Ronnie had not noticed he was awake.

"Sarah, I am up to just over sixty hours a week now, what more do you want me to do? You know I would live here if I could, but they only let me work for so long." Ronnie was pacing now, one hand on top of his head as he listened to his distressed wife. "You want me to what? Sarah… I know he's getting sicker… Of course I don't… Will you just listen-" Bane watched as the guard clenched his fist until his knuckles were white, and watched his body slightly begin to shake. "Don't say that… The chemo _is_ working, I saw… Just shut up!"

Bane continued to stay quiet as Ronnie punched the wall in front of him in fury.

"Just shut up, Sarah!" he hissed violently, trying to stay quiet so he wouldn't upset the other patients and bring attention on himself from the other staff. But here with them, he could have his humiliating conversation. "Shut the fuck up for a second! I'm trying! He's going to live, do you hear me? My son will live…" Trying to find some composure as he shook, Ronnie took a few breaths before speaking again to his now weeping wife. "I'll talk to Arkham again. Maybe I can get a raise or something. I'll get the money somehow. But don't you dare call me up anymore and tell me I'm not doing anything. Don't say that to me again, Sarah."

As his wife continued to sob, Ronnie disconnected.

He turned around only to make direct eye contact with Bane. Too exhausted to wonder if he should feel angry at the intrusion or embarrassed, Ronnie could only stare right back. He would never have come this way to talk on the phone if he'd known Bane had woken. He was supposed to still be asleep.

Bane cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Troubles at home, Officer?" he questioned gently.

* * *

Camille sat in her office alone. The medication she'd given Bane would give him about four hours of sleep. She'd told him that they would continue with therapy once he'd rested, and now she waited for the guards to bring him here instead of their usual session room.

She didn't know what to think. Ronnie's words kept playing over in her mind. She'd told the officer that it was their job to help the patients at Arkham Asylum, and Ronnie had simply reminded her that Bane had almost destroyed everyone in Gotham City without breaking a sweat. Bane himself had told her that had been his intention all along. They could all be dead right now if not for Bane having been defeated and the Batman's sacrifice.

And after all that, after practically almost tasting death, why was she disobeying orders to help a murderer feel the slightest relief? Shouldn't she not care if he was in pain, and just casually say something like, "Well, sorry about your bad luck, big guy, but you kinda deserve this"?

Of course she shouldn't say that, and of course she shouldn't let her patient suffer when it was her job to take care of him. Murderer or not, she couldn't do the things the city wanted her to do concerning Bane. She would never had taken a job here, an asylum full of the criminally insane, if she didn't know what kind of people her patients would be. She'd taken an oath, she would help him.

She would forget Ronnie's words and Dr. Arkham's beliefs.

Camille jumped when her fax phone rang, then pick up the transmission with its high-pitched squeal. After wheeling her chair closer to her fax machine, she picked up the paper as it slid into the tray.

_We're all waiting on you, Dr. Lane. We're waiting to see the monster's dead body, so we can burn it. Kill him for us. We want to see his blood on your hands. Don't let us become his victims again. Kill the monster Bane! _

Glaring, Camille crunched the paper in her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the red haze that was fury and a little fear to fade. When it did, she calmly set the message in one of her desk drawers.

Two notes in one day? And on her birthday. Camille wished she knew who this person was so she could admit him or her here. They were crazy to think that she'd do what they asked of her. How could anyone even know this? she asked herself again. The names of her patients were supposed to be confidential to the public, especially when it came to Bane. Most of the city was in an uproar that he was even still alive.

That really narrowed her little messenger down, she thought with a sigh.

She needed to relax some before Bane arrived. He should be waking up soon, or even on his way here. Reaching for her purse, Camille pulled out her prescription pill bottle, her keys, and a pair of big sunglasses, placing them on her desk before she found her lipstick in the depths of her bag. Taking out a mirror, she uncapped her lipstick and began reapplying, began relaxing.

That's how she was when the guards brought Bane into her office.

She blinked once as she locked eyes with Bane as the nude lipstick bullet was held against her lips, then hurriedly put it away into her purse as the guards wheeled him in. She'd asked them after she'd put Bane to sleep to bring him in a wheelchair once he woke and it was time for their session to begin. She thought the idea best since he'd not been able to sleep for so long, and might feel a little weak. Ronnie pushed the wheelchair up to her desk, made sure Bane was shackled properly - you never knew - then turned to leave her office.

"Thank you, Ronnie," she chirped, trying to sound happy and to make the sudden friction between them disappear. If there was one thing Camille hated, it was awkwardness, especially between fellow employees.

He looked at her, and it was then that she realized just how sad and tired he was. She knew that his son was having health problems, although she didn't know the hard details. And because she felt like she didn't know how to comfort him, she'd left it alone. Ronnie gave her a slight nod before leaving and slowly closing her office door.

Camille turned attention back to Bane, who'd been staring at her the whole time with his intense green eyes. She made a mental note of his complexion. His body didn't look as hot as it did earlier in the morning before she'd helped him sleep. She could tell just by looking at him that his temperature was still up, and that he was still in chronic pain, pain that she didn't think anything she could give him could make it go away completely. But his eyes looked different. They were still hollow and still able to tell her of his suffering. But they looked much more rested than when she'd seen to him earlier.

His body was still crying out for his usual analgesics, and she was starting to believe that nothing she ever did could change that.

After taking out her tape recorder and babbling the same introduction that took place before all of their sessions together, she asked, "How are you feeling?"

He jiggled his shackles a little before answering her. "Rested. I suppose I should thank you, dear Doctor Lane."

She looked at his weathered face, and the scars around his full mouth. "You still look…"

"I understand that you want to try and soothe my pain. But let me tell you once again that nothing can help me, expect for the medicine that was taken from me." He took a big breath through his mouth before slowly leaning forward slightly. "Tell me, whatever happened to my mask?"

Camille drew her dark brows together and wondered why he'd ask such a thing when he knew he'd never get it back. And then thought of the mask he'd asked of sitting on her table at home surrounded by dozens of notes, and the medicine sitting in her fridge waiting to be dissected. "That information isn't available to you, Bane. I've just given you four hours of uninterrupted sleep. What's put you in such a bad mood?"

"Am I in a bad mood, Doctor Lane? I'm not, I can assure you."

She eyed him some, then smacked her lips together – Why did she do that? – and wrote a few things down onto her pad.

He stared at her lips as she wrote, and remembered her painting them when he'd arrived. Women could be so cute, at times. An image of him smearing shiny pink gloss from Talia's lips came to mind. He closed his eyes for a second, and told himself it was not the time to think of Talia and her lips.

"What does he do?" he asked her, and settled back into the wheelchair, his lower back starting to scream again.

"Who?"

"Your ex-husband."

Camille lifted a brow at him, and wondered if he thought the one exception she'd made for him earlier when concerning her life was still valid. He'd said that he was tired of discussing himself all the time. Maybe if she gave a little, then so would he. "He's an artist."

"Really?" Bane said, sounding chipper and interested. She wrote the reaction down. "How lovely. How is his work? And I'm sure you can answer me honestly on that one, no longer being married to him and all."

She smiled a little. "He's actually very good. His namesake helped some, but he would have made it without it."

"He paints?"

Camille nodded, and thought of one painting she still kept in her home. Jackson had painted a landscape of Gotham for her one Christmas. She'd hated it, hated the city because of her childhood but somehow never leaving it, but kept the painting all the same. How could she throw away Jackson's hard work? Especially since he still believed she loved it?

Bane kept his eyes on her. "Is he the reason for these?" he asked softly, and reached over to pluck the forgotten pill bottle from her desk.

A slight jolt shook her body as she watched him hold her Lexapro. She leaned forward and snatched the pills from his large and calloused hand. He let her, and watched her stuff all the forgotten items back into her purse.

"I thought the divorce was a mutual decision, Dr. Camille."

"It was. And I'll ask you once to call me Dr. Lane."

His brows lifted some as he sensed her anger, and felt a slight heat from her. "Now I have upset you."

She looked back at him, sitting in a wheelchair with a useless back brace around his waist and oxygen being pumped into him through nose tubes now, and sighed. She couldn't help him if she got messed up now. She had a job to do.

Camille wished to could take one of the Lexapro right now.

"I'm not upset. But I'd like to go back to you now. Tell me about the special agents during the revolution."

Oh, she was upset, Bane thought. Pills were never good for emotional pain. And, when concerning her ex-husband, his doctor seemed to have plenty of that. "Special agents?"

"Yes. The ones who maneuvered their way into Gotham without you knowing. The agents who were killed by your men. The people you hung on the bridge for the world to see."

Bane remembered crushing one of those agents neck, and wished he could do the same to his captors here. "Ah, yes. What do you wish to know about them?"

She eyed him, and wrote down how casual he seemed about the topic. "Why did you hang them?"

"Simple, Dr. Lane. To teach a lesson."

She thought she should feel chilled by that answer. Instead, she tried understanding it. "You seem to enjoy teaching."

"What is life without lessons? The military thought they could thwart me and sneak in their little spies. I killed their men, one slowly, and shoved their plan back into their faces. I had the bodies hung so they could watch them sway in the wind, and smell the stench of their failure. The military learned on that day that their actions were futile. After that, they did nothing else to get inside the city."

"Is that why you chose Gotham? To teach a corrupt city a lesson?"

He thought of Talia, and of what she referred to as her slow knife. "Gotham was chosen to restore balance to the world," he answered, echoing Talia's own words she'd said to him long ago.

Camille nodded slowly. Balance in Gotham? It was almost unimaginable. "Your revolution seemed to consist of a bunch of lessons. Lessons you apparently believe in, and taught well. I've been your doctor for some time now, Bane. Considering that time, what lesson would you teach me?"

The question surprised him. Bane rubbed his lips together as he looked her over, trying to see through the barrier. He didn't know much about his doctor. But he was a great judge of character, and could see the cracks that people tried so hard to fill.

"I don't know you very well, Dr. Lane," he replied quietly, and looked into her eyes the color of the night. "But by looking at you, I can see that you are not living. You are… tolerating. You tolerate your depression by taking those pills. And you tolerated the revolution by cowering at home, I'd imagine. I would teach you what it is to live. Without life, there is simply death. And I fear, Dr. Lane, that you might be dying on the inside."

Her heart was suddenly stampeding inside her chest. Maybe this had been a bad idea. She should have kept herself out of it. Isn't that how Harleen got caught up in the Joker's web? But Bane was immensely different from the Joker. Camille didn't want to be told her was dying inside. But, she thought, remembering her pills and Jackson. She didn't think she could deny to herself that it might be a possibility.

"The day you choose to live, my dear," Bane continued, his voice low and searching. "Is the day you will be free from those pills. You shouldn't let them hold you down."

They stared at each other for a while. His words only made her understand him a little bit more. He was an idealist, someone who stood by his principles. He'd become Gotham's liberator when it refused to stand on its own.

He was a very smart man.

"Thank you," he croaked out, his voice usually an indicator of his pain. "For letting me sleep, Dr. Lane."

"Oh," she said softly, and nodded at him. "You're welcome."

He watched her hand as she tapped her long red fingernails on her desk. Where had she gone to? he questioned himself. What did she think about so often? "Do you forgive easily?" he asked her.

Her eyes returned to his. "I'm sorry?"

He tapped the hollow at his throat. "The cross at your neck. A big symbol of forgiveness. Do you forgive those who hurt you easily?"

Her hand went up to touch the small gold charm at her neck. "In some cases, it can be easy. But... I'm only human. And to not be forgiving is unfortunately part of the human condition at times. "

He watched her hand as it rested on the cross on her chest. "And do you forgive me for what I've done?"

She looked into his eyes, then her gaze slowly drifted down to his mouth, and she imagined him wearing the mask she knew all too well now. She squeezed the cross between her fingers, and reminded herself why she wore it in the first place.

"It's easy to forgive when the actions aren't surprising at all. It's the unexpected circumstances that cause us not to forgive. So… I guess I do."

Bane grinned at her.

* * *

A couple hours later, after Bane had been taken back to his cell with his usual after-session oxycodone, Camille stood in Jeremiah Arkham's large and fabulously furnished office with her hands held behind her back as she watched him pace back and forth.

She was in trouble.

"You're lucky I don't drop you from his case, Dr. Lane. I gave you specific instructions when handling Bane, and you threw them out of the window. I told you that all inquiries about him were to come through me first. And what did you do? You completely ignored me."

"He was suffering, Dr. Arkham. This was his worst day yet. He needed immediate relief. How can I do my job when my patient looks as if he'll pass out from affliction at any moment?"

Jeremiah's hands thudded firmly onto his desk as he looked at her in the eye, his face slightly red. "Medication for Bane must be approved by me first. That's the bottom line, Dr. Lane."

"But _you _aren't his doctor. I am."

She regretted the words when he simply stared at her. She wasn't afraid of this man. In fact, she wished she could pop him one right between the eyes for making her feel like a fool when concerning decisions about her own patient. He didn't know how to take care of Bane, nor did he even want to, if it weren't for the media. She regretted the words because she didn't want to be moved to another case after she'd invested so much time and research into this one. This very big one.

"Do you want to be kicked off this case, Doctor?"

"No, sir. I don't."

"Then I suggest you start putting your listening ears on. I cleared the oxycodone, and that is all he's allowed to have. Do I make myself clear?"

It took everything in her not to roll her eyes. "Yes, Dr. Arkham."

"And what's this I hear about you going to his cell this morning and having a nice, friendly chat? You're supposed to be rehabilitating _Bane_, Camille. Not discussing your non-existent birthday plans."

"I thought it would help-"

"I don't care about any of that. Your job is to get inside his head. And it's about time you told him the truth."

Camille blinked at him before answering. "I don't think that's a good idea, Dr. Arkham. Not just yet. He needs to recover a little more before I throw something like that at him. He needs to trust me."

He waved her off impatiently. "I've listened to the tapes, Camille. I've read the notes. You aren't getting anywhere fast. He needs to know we have a file on him so thick he couldn't lie to us even if he tried to. Bane needs to know that we have the upper hand. I'm not going to let another patient here pull the strings." He rubbed his hair back in exasperation as he thought of the Joker, and the bumps that had put in the road for him and his asylum.

"Dr. Arkham, please. Not yet."

"Enough." He silenced her with a hand. "During your next session with him, you tell that bastard we know everything about him." Jeremiah took out a small key from his pocket of his designer suit and opened one of his locked drawers. Pulling out a heavy black folder, he tossed it on the desk for her to retrieve with a loud _thunk_. It had Bane's name on it.

"You tell Bane we know about Talia al Ghul."

**TBC**

**A/N: One of my reviewers told me that, in the comics, Jeremiah Arkham is a nice guy and cares about his patients. I've never read any of the comics, unfortunately. And I'm working with the Nolanverse, giving my story the same dark undertones as he did with these characters. So, to make things darker, Jeremiah is a jerk here. Review for me, my darlings! **


	8. Control the Storm

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 8**

**Control the Storm**

"_Did you know, in the end, you're no stronger of hand? You are no stronger of heart. And did you know, in the end, we'll be tragically torn apart?" – Delain_

The next couple of days were exhausting for Camille. She'd spent hours in meetings with Doctor Arkham and a very select few of the other psychiatrists on staff at the asylum discussing Bane, and how best to access the situation concerning him, and everything they knew about him. Camille, Jeremiah, and the other two doctors each took turns passing around various papers in the office used only for meetings, the papers that had been in the black folder given to them by police commissioner James Gordon.

Camille's other colleagues, a Doctor Williams who was only there because he'd been on staff for the last thirty years, and a Doctor Kelly, who Camille was certain was very envious of the fact that Bane had been given to her and was there because the older woman had tried treating Jonathon Crane when he'd first been admitted, had all sat around the table giving there little _Hmm_'s and _Ahh_'s she was really starting to despise.

She didn't want to talk about Bane with either of the other doctors, or even Jeremiah. She'd tried bringing up client confidentiality and that Bane's therapy was her business, and to a lesser extent, Jeremiah's as well, but her boss had just waved his hand at her yet again – she wanted to slap it away – and told her that Bane's rights had gone out of the window long ago as far as he was concerned.

Both doctors had given her their opinions, and Jeremiah had told her what he expected of her. But at the end of the day, if Camille was forced to go way ahead of her schedule and tell Bane everything they knew about him, then she would do it her own way. She knew she would be walking a thin line. She knew that she could possibly be removed from Bane's case if Jeremiah was very displeased with how she would handle it. But she didn't care.

Bane was hers. As of right now, she would continue his therapy her own way. She'd put in too many hours of hard work and research into this case. Bane was her first high profile inmate. If she wanted to further her career, she had to do what she felt was right.

But this wasn't right, she told herself while sitting at her desk in her office, where she was buried in a sea of papers. Camille had wanted Bane to get used to being here first, wanted him to recover a little further from his trauma, and for him to trust her more, to know he was safe here. She didn't feel he was ready to handle such news.

Who knew how Bane, the man who had taken Gotham by force and held them hostage for months, would react when he discovered what they knew? What would he feel when he was told that Miranda Tate's true intentions were known? And how would he react to her after she'd said the words?

Camille frowned as she ran her pencil through her fingers.

If what the file said was true, and after she'd discussed everything with him first, Camille didn't know how therapy with Bane would resume after that. It wasn't that she was afraid that he would react violently toward her after he was told, because security was right outside a flimsy door and she honestly didn't think that Bane was the type of man to go into fits of intense rage if it served no purpose. And it wasn't that she felt bad for him. As a psychiatrist, especially one dealing with criminals, you couldn't feel those things for your patients, things like pity.

Camille was worried that he would clam up completely, or simply refuse to work with her anymore. She wanted to rehabilitate him, not drive him further away. How could she help someone if everything went to hell before she could really even begin, and how could she ever get another patient like Bane if this one failed? While she loved her work, she didn't want to go back to the level one patients. When it concerned her career, Camille didn't want to leave things stagnant.

This was all Jeremiah's fault, she thought with a scowl. If he stopped worrying so much about the asylum's image and instead generated it towards his patients then she wouldn't be having this problem right now. Things would be on a much better schedule. But no, he couldn't do that. He wanted to hurt Bane. He wanted to give something to the media, something that would make them more interested in him than they already were with the fact that his establishment had been given Bane instead of somewhere else.

"Asshole," she muttered, and snapped the pencil still in her hands in two.

Camille looked at the clock and saw that it was late. The patients would be in lockdown soon, and she needed to go home to get some rest before her session with Bane tomorrow. The session she dreaded because it wasn't part of the plan.

She rubbed her curls back from her face, and decided that she would check on Bane in his cell before she left for the night. After locking up her office, she pulled on her black coat and headed down the dark halls of Arkham Asylum.

She'd chosen to wear ballet flats that day, so her feet made no sound as she continued down the long hall of the level they kept the high profile patients, passing each cell that held an insane criminal like it was just an average Wednesday. She glanced into one. She knew that the patient in here had yet to begin receiving psychiatric treatment, and didn't think that it would even be an option for this particular patient.

The beautiful woman sat on her bed, her long, slender back perfectly straight, her delicate hands resting on her thighs, and her eyes closed, breathing carefully. Camille watched her for a few moments, and wondered if she should tell someone that the woman with the long, thick red hair looked a little sick. Her skin had the slightest tint of green. Camille didn't know very much about some of the newer patients, like this woman. But she did know that there was a history of poisoning with this one, and never asked any questions about her.

Camille sighed. She thought it such a shame that a woman so pretty was now locked up in here when she could be out there breaking hearts.

Continuing on her way, Camille finally made it to Bane's cell. She held back a little, leaning against one of the corners and peaking around it, not wanting to be too close. She didn't want to get into any more trouble for visiting him in his cell again, and didn't want to disturb her patient's night anyway.

Surprisingly, she saw him slowly pacing his cell. He took his steps carefully, and almost hesitantly. Camille thought to herself, if he was in so much pain, why would he be walking around when he didn't have to? She heard him take a loud breath every now and then, and saw that both his hands rested on his shoulders. Remembering the file, she decided that the reason why he was pacing now, even with all the pain, was because his body needed some kind of physical use other than just walking to the session room for therapy and sitting up to eat his meals.

The moon was high in the sky now. And out of the very few windows they had on this level, a small ray of moonlight swept inside. That, along with the dim lights down the hall made it easier for her to see him now.

Camille saw that he had removed his gray scrub shirt.

She blinked as her eyes saw his body for the first time. She let them wander over his back when he faced away from her, at all the scars scattered along his flesh. His large muscles would flex every time he took one of his deep breaths, letting her see firsthand what the Batman had been up against physically. When he turned back around to pace the other way, Camille saw his abs constrict, and worked her eyes up to the strong shoulders his hands held and squeezed every now and then.

She swallowed, and felt something tighten ever so slightly in her lower stomach.

A cell door further down the hall closed, its loud sound making her jump. She placed a hand on her heart, felt it racing, and decided that it was definitely time to go home. She had no business being here now. She'd checked on her patient, saw that he was okay, and now it was time to go get rest for her big, dreadful work day tomorrow.

She thought herself pathetic that she crept away like a little mouse, trying not to be seen sneaking off, or heard in her small ballet flats.

Inside his cell, Bane slowly turned his head towards the spot he knew Camille had been standing, watching him, and chuckled softly while smiling into the dark.

* * *

Hours later, after a restless night's sleep and almost a gallon of coffee for breakfast, Camille stood in front of the door that would lead her into the session room where Bane was waiting for her. She'd tried to dress sensibly and professionally, but ended up just choosing black skinny jeans, a white tank top, and a thin black sweater to keep the chill away. She did, however, slide her black pumps onto her feet for proficiency, and had painted her lips a ruby red.

If she had to do this, she would at least make him feel trusting and wear the lip color he'd preferred.

Camille rolled her eyes at herself, then cursed her boss yet again. She'd lost count how many times she'd done that already this morning.

All her supplies for the session were held in her arms; some of her own previous notes, the tape recorder, the black file that held Bane's life, and two bottles of iced water. She'd noted that his temperature seemed to be spiking again, and thought it best to make sure he was hydrated enough.

She nodded at the guards, and waited as they opened the door for her. Walking inside she saw him sitting in his chair as always, exhausted and in pain. As she passed him, she set one water bottle in front of him before taking her seat. He only glanced at it for a moment before uncapping it and guzzling down the liquid like he'd been suffering from excessive thirst.

Camille drew her brows together as she set her things down. "Are they not giving you anything to drink over there?"

"Not nearly enough. Good morning, Dr. Lane."

She watched him eye the second bottle, and slid it over to him. He drank that one down as well.

Okay, she told herself as she prepared and stated the interview on her tape recorder. It was time to go to work. Time to put your feelings on the matter aside and do your job. You're a professional woman, and you will act like one. Yes, it's annoying that things are way ahead of your schedule, but just suck it up and think of the outcome. You _will_ rehabilitate this man, you _will_ better your career.

You _will_ have your own life, just like Jackson is having his without you.

"How was your night?" she asked him.

Bane almost smiled at the question, and remembered her sneaking off after her spying on him. "My nights are all the same. Uneventful, and ineffective."

"I'm sorry for that."

He stared at her and swallowed, the water almost soothing his burning throat. "I understand that your actions of giving me sleep got you into a bit of trouble."

She lifted a shoulder and shook her head. "Don't worry about that. Nothing I can't handle. You're my patient and I'll give you what I see is necessary to give you." She didn't want him to know that she'd almost been plucked from his case because of it. She wanted him to believe that she was calling the shots. But now, after that incident, she didn't think he believed it at all.

"You don't need to say those things to me, Doctor. I know they do not want me to sleep peacefully."

She sensed something and wrote it down. She felt resentment, of sorts. Did Bane hate it here? Of course he did, she told herself. Look at the way they were treating him. Even the Joker had received more privileges than him, oddly enough.

But the Joker hadn't caused as much damage and as many deaths as Bane had. At least, not yet.

Camille rubbed her lips together, and softly placed her hand on the black folder in front of her. She patted it twice, and opened it.

"Bane." She waited until his eyes were locked on hers, and turned herself into the professional psychiatrist instead of the woman who disapproved of decisions made by her boss.

"A few days after you were taken to the hospital last year, this folder was delivered to the Gotham Police Department for Commissioner Gordon. It was specifically addressed for his eyes only, until he made his own decision of who to give it to himself. After it was decided that you were to be admitted here, as an inmate at Arkham Asylum, James Gordon gave this folder to us. And, as your doctor, it was given to me."

She watched as his green eyes drifted down slowly, landing on the file her hand still rested on.

"We know everything about you, Bane. Everything."

After a few moments, she saw him lift his brow, and wondered if he believed her or not.

"And who gave you this information?" he asked hoarsely.

"We believe that, right before his death, the Batman sent this file out to Commissioner Gordon, to be received at a later date. No one could know at the time what the future held for us. And, in case you lived, and you did, we would have the appropriate information on you. The Batman made sure we didn't go into anything blind concerning you. And, because of this, we also believe that he knew there was a big possibility that he would not survive."

_You don't fear death, you welcome it. _Bane's own words sang in his head as he continued to stare at the folder. He found his teeth grinding together. Bruce Wayne wasn't supposed to leave this world without his permission. But he had. He had gotten the one thing he desired, on his own terms.

And Bane was rotting in this place.

Camille watched him intently, and decided to continue. "As I said, we know everything. We know about the prison, _Peña Dura_, in India. We know what happened to you there, with the doctors, and why you're in chronic pain. We know of your condition. We know how your mask worked to keep you medicated. And we know about the League of Shadows."

He refused to meet her eyes or speak. She was starting to feel a little weary, but pushed it back so she could do what needed to be done. What she was told to do.

"We know you trained there for years under Ra's al Ghul, also known as Henri Ducard. We know you were eventually excommunicated by him, specifically."

She waited, and got nothing. Had this room always been so silent? She made a few mores notes of his reaction, or lack thereof, and kept her cooled expression as her eyes watched him again, hoping for something, hoping for words, and only receiving more silence.

"And," she continued still, her voice now low and accepting. "We know Ra's al Ghul had a daughter. Talia al Ghul, who was a citizen of Gotham City under the alias Miranda Tate, former CEO of Wayne Enterprises."

Camille held her breath once Bane's gaze snapped onto hers instantly. She forced herself to speak calmly, and to keep her eyes on Bane's and not let him see any other emotion than her professional demeanor. "We know you were working together, Bane. We know you trained together in the League of Shadows before your excommunication, and that she planned the whole revolution with you."

Camille watched as a faint line of what she supposed was irritation crease between his brows. He continued to make no movements, only spearing her with his gaze. She held her ground and never left his eyes with her own, even though she wanted to, even though she desperately wanted to flat out ask him what he was thinking. But the tables had turned now, and it was up to her to call the shots. She could do this, and do it right from here on out.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke, his voice calm and raspy.

"You seem to know a lot of things, Dr. Lane."

"I know a lot more."

"Where is Talia?"

It was with that one question, that abrupt question, that Camille saw whatever trust she had built up with him fly far away. She wanted to sigh, wanted to bang Jeremiah's head against his stupid desk and tell him she'd told him so. But she couldn't, and would have to work with what she now had.

"I have that answer for you, Bane. But, as you know, if I give, then you must as well. I'm going to ask you questions now, and I want you to answer me truthfully. If I'm satisfied with your answers, then I will tell you what happened with Miranda Tate." She tilted her head to the side. "Deal?"

"Yes."

Up for the challenge now, Camille scooted her chair a little closer to the table between them, and prepared to ask the questions that would give her more insight concerning the man who had almost killed them all, and the woman who had used deception to her advantage.

"At what age was she when you took full responsibility for Talia al Ghul?"

The question was so simple, and yet his voice refused to work. The knowledge these people now had about his history and Talia in combination with the pain was starting to feel a bit overwhelming for him. And, oddly enough, a strange weight had been lifted from Bane's shoulders when Camille spoke of Talia, telling him she knew exactly what had happened to her. No longer would he have to fill his mind with worry of her safety, no longer would he have to question whether she had forgotten about him. He would play this little game of Camille's if it meant he would know what became of his love. And then, when his mind was put fully at ease, could he act on it.

He was a smart man, and Bane knew just how much to give to satisfy. He would satisfy Camille. And one day, in the near future, he would tear this place apart.

"Talia was nine years old when I took her in."

"How did you care for her?"

"I spent every hour of every day we were in prison protecting her."

Camille nodded, writing on her pad and keeping her expression icy. "After the League of Shadows took you both in, had your relationship changed at all?"

He didn't react to that question. He had enough self-control for that. He would tell her what he wished to tell her, and accepted the fact that nobody would ever understand. Not even this pretty doctor with her deep red lips. "Please elaborate, Dr. Lane."

She sent him a look, saw the challenge, and took it. "In the situation you two were in, things had to have suddenly become very different once you were free. You both were different people sentenced there, one only just a child. All of a sudden, you're both being molded, transformed, into weapons by the same man, and discovering who you truly are outside _Peña Dura_. No longer are you the trapped prisoner given the burden of another life and forced to live in agony, and no longer is she the little girl you no doubt held at night. You are a man who is strong physically, mentally, and given relief, and she is a young woman who has grown from the small child and embracing that womanhood. You grew up together, in a way. And my information tells me you were very close."

Bane's eyes scanned her, and became dark. He knew what she was asking, and could almost hate her for it. "I will not speak such things about Talia with you."

"My concern isn't Talia, Bane. My concern is you. I wish to know you, not her. But unfortunately, to get closer to you I have to go through her." Against his steely gaze, she would not allow her eyes to soften. If she wanted her answers, she had to fight him. And she was most definitely a fighter. "Was your relationship strictly platonic, or intimate?"

As he simply stared at her in a way he'd never had before, a stare full of angry heat that could have melted the coldest of ice, Camille told herself that she'd seen that stare a million times before, told herself that it couldn't bother her if she was used to it. And she was used to it. She'd seen that same stare every time her mother would glance in her direction as she hugged Camille's brothers with affection, and she receiving none. She'd seen that stare again in her life, when Jackson had told her he was leaving her, and that there was nothing she could do to change it. And now, as Bane looked at her without blinking, she just added his name to the list.

"Please don't give me a reason not to tell you what you want to know. I can end the session right now if I want to. And Talia will never be brought up again."

That seemed to be the statement that had him considering. She desperately wanted to know what was going through his head. But she was patient, and she would work the answers out of him. That was what she'd been trained to do. Finally, he spoke.

"Talia was mine, in every way a woman can belong to a man."

"I see." Camille already knew that. Already knew of his feelings as they discussed Talia al Ghul. Unfortunately for Bane, his eyes gave him away every time they spoke of her. How would he react when she told him the end result of his love? "And were you completely committed to each other?"

"Yes, and no," he murmured, and forced himself to unclench his fists from beneath the table. His joints were on fire. And now, his chest felt heavy. "Spiritually, we were. But physically was a little harder to maintain. There would be great periods of time when we would be apart."

"Periods of time when she was deceiving Gotham by pretending to be an elite businesswoman?"

The comment didn't sting. Maybe she thought it would hurt him, but it didn't. Instead, he felt proud. Proud that his Talia had received trust from this horrible, corrupt city. To show Camille that her words meant nothing to him, he lifted his lips and smirked at her. "Why, yes, Dr. Lane."

"Have you ever forced yourself on another woman?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You speak of rape?"

"Yes. The list of your misconduct is quite long, but doesn't include rape. Should it?"

His eyes, finally leaving hers, dropped down to Camille's lips as she rubbed them together. "And what would be your prediction on that?"

She shook her head and repeated, "Have you ever forced yourself on another woman, Bane?"

Feeling pride again, he answered, "I have never had to, Doctor."

The room was silent again as they stared at each other. Camille looked over his features. If someone didn't know who he was, didn't know of his crimes, a woman would most definitely find him attractive. As an image of his bare upper body came to her mind, Camille knew he was telling the truth.

"Who came up with the plan to destroy Gotham?"

"Talia came to me, and told me what she wanted. I assisted her."

"Like you've always assisted her?"

He waited a beat before slowly nodding.

She skimmed the papers on her desk, sensed his energy draining. "Did the plan to burn the city have anything to do with Ra's al Ghul's death here some years ago?" Her eyes met his again. "Was it just a revenge scheme?"

"For Talia, I suppose it was."

"And you were willing to die for her?"

Bane took a few more deep breaths before answering. "I died for her a long time ago."

Camille found herself frowning, and decided that she'd rather take his anger than hear those things. She hated hearing those things. Because she had done something similar a very long time ago. When Jackson had left her, she'd felt death. Felt it to the point of medication. She placed her hands on her lap underneath the table, and scratched her forearms. Now was not the time to sink. She looked back at Bane, and discovered that she could understand him completely now. When it came to Talia al Ghul, she could relate. For her case with him, it was a very good thing. It would help. Psychiatrists who could understand perfectly ended up helping their patient the most.

For Camille personally, it would be a very dark road. Maybe she could help him further along it when he discovered the truth. And maybe she would be returned to square one if she travelled that dark road with him.

It was something to think about later.

"I wish to know what happened to Talia now, Dr. Lane."

She looked back at him, her patient. The man she was trying to rehabilitate, the man she was having so much trouble over professionally, the man whose very existence was causing her to receive threatening mail by the bitter and unforgiving residents of Gotham City. Her black eyes became grim as she looked into his, and Camille found there was never a good way to relay news like this. But because she was the one to tell him, wanted to be the one to tell him, she settled on relaying it quickly. She answered him softly.

"Talia al Ghul is dead."

**TBC**

**A/N: We all know how human Bane can get when it concerns Talia. Just think of those freaking eyes of his when she would look at him. That was emotion, my friends. And I know everyone has their own opinion on what kind of love they shared exactly. Some think brotherly love, some think fatherly, and some think they were just extremely close friends. I'm a part of the group that thinks he was very much in love with her. I mean… those eyes! They killed me! Tell me your thoughts on the Bane/Talia love. I'd love to hear them. And thank you so very much, from the bottom of my heart, for all your lovely reviews. Keep them coming, my darlings! **


	9. Romanticide

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 9**

**Romanticide**

"_Leave me be, and cease to tell me how to feel, to grieve, to shield, myself from evil." – Nightwish_

Silence.

Camille pursed her lips together as she stared at Bane. The session room was once again silent, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the faint occasional footsteps of one of the guards outside. Usually she could hear Bane breathing in the quiet. She didn't hear that sound now, or her own breathing. And it was starting to give her anxiety.

As they quietly stared at each other, Camille refused to feel or to imagine. But she thought she was slowly losing that battle. Sheer force of will had her stay in her seat. Or perhaps it was the rage, but instead what she saw as grief, in his eyes as she scanned his face.

And then she saw his chest heave, and her heart stopped.

She didn't know how long Bane could sit there, hunched over from the pain like he always was, unable to breathe, his body wanting to rock from shock of Talia's death. Surprising her to the point where she jumped just a little, he spoke so softly she almost couldn't hear him.

"How did she die?"

Camille swallowed and finally took a breath. How could she be feeling this way? She'd told other patients of death before. She'd helped other patients along as they grieved for their loved ones. Why was she feeling such emotion now, as she watched an enormous hulk of a man, this _terrorist_, realize that the one person he saw as precious was now gone from this world?

Because she knew what it was like to have your love taken from you. Except in her case, her love was still breathing, and had left on his own. She wondered which scenario was worse.

Keeping his gaze because she felt like she had to, Camille answered gently. "Talia al Ghul was inside the truck that held the bomb. It crashed down into the subway." She tried breathing calmly to steady her racing heart. "She broke every bone in her body."

He didn't react at all to her words. He needed a moment for his hands to stop slightly shaking under the table, for his heart to stop sputtering and beat normally again. He gulped once, and then he broke.

He stood suddenly and much too quickly than his body liked. His spine screamed and his muscles shrieked at the sudden and almost unfamiliar quickness he used to have. Grunting softly, he hunched himself back over, resting his shackled hands on the table.

Camille was up in a flash. She forgot who she was with, forgot that she was with an extremely strong murderer, and instead remembered that she was with her patient who she had taken an oath to help long ago. She zipped around the table to him in her pumps, and softly rested her hands on his back, feeling the excessively tight muscles from him slouching most of the time in agony.

"Just sit back down."

She heard his spine crack all the way down as he tried to stand up straight again. It wasn't working for him, his body wasn't used to the suddenness of movement. And because of the quickness, he must have pulled something.

"Please sit, Bane. Talk to me."

He looked away from her now, and held himself up by one hand as the other slowly came her way. She wondered if she should yell for the guards, until his hand softly rested on her stomach and gently pushed her away from him.

"Don't touch me," he whispered, then turned towards the door. He knew he couldn't get out without Camille's palm print. Standing there, slouched and in massive pain outside and inside his body, he waited.

Camille frowned, and went around him to open the door. Session had apparently ended for the day.

Before she could call Ronnie or one of the other guards, Bane stepped forward on his own.

"Hey!" One of the other officers yelled and pointed at him. "Hey, you! Where do you think you're going, pal?"

Bane seemed to ignore them and continued on, his steps careful and his head down.

Camille piped up. "No, wait-"

"Call for backup! He's leaving unauthorized."

As a few of the other officers reached for their weapons, Camille trotted up in her heels and stepped in front of Bane, causing him to halt.

"No! It's okay. Don't hurt him."

The guard on duty frowned at her. "This isn't procedure, Dr. Lane."

"I know, I'm sorry. But everything's fine. Session is done for today, Officers. Bane just needs an escort back to his cell."

The guard eyed Bane carefully with his hand still resting on his weapon. After all this guy did to them last year, he sure wasn't going to take any chances. Finally, the voice of Ronnie Pierce had him backing off. The guard in charge patted him on the back and had him step aside.

"Ronnie," Camille breathed in relief. "Please take Bane back now."

Ronnie looked Bane over as well before nodding at her, and taking his shackles to lead him off. He mentioned for some of the other armed officers to walk behind Bane as they made their way back to the holding cells.

Camille sensed the other men's anticipation from the scene, and wondered if they were just itching for a chance to wrestle Bane to the ground and subdue him. She wanted to glare at them because she knew they did. To make sure nothing like that happened from Bane's sudden leaving, she walked next to him as they brought him back to his cell.

Bane didn't seem to notice anything or have any words to say as he was escorted back. He stayed silent as Ronnie opened his cell and lead him inside, instantly going to his bed. Ronnie placed a hand on Camille's shoulder as she tried to go in with him to hold her back. She watched Bane lie down as the cell bars were slowly lowered and locked. She made a mental note to have someone bring him his oxycodone. He would definitely need it.

Suddenly feeling useless, she watched him for a few moments, just to make sure everything was okay. Pulling her black sweater tightly around her body, she turned and left.

She knew, in times like these, pitiful company was the worst thing she could do for him.

* * *

Finally alone in his cell, without the guards or Camille watching him, Bane stared at the wall and suffered as his body screamed at him in distress.

Talia was dead. Killed during the attempt to keep the bomb that would give her sweet revenge away from the police, and away from the Batman. Killed because he had been struck down, and was useless to help and to save her. But how did that make any sense? He'd always been there to save her, hadn't he? And the one time he wasn't, the one time where it seemed to count the most, she'd died.

He didn't know which feeling to focus on. There were just so many going on inside him at the moment.

He felt grief. Of course he felt grief. Talia, his redemption, had rotted away. It wasn't her death itself that was grieving him. He'd accepted a long time ago that she would die, when they'd first started planning and making the decisions. He'd even tried talking her into getting out of the city so she would be safe. But, of course, his headstrong Talia wouldn't listen to him. And as the plan came closer and closer to fruition, they'd accepted their deaths so very easily. His grief didn't come from something they'd known was inevitable. His grief came from the fact that he was supposed to have died with her.

Bane had lost his face for Talia. He'd given up everything that came with being a normal man for her, to being one that had to be constantly medicated to survive. One that was seen as a monster. And he'd been fine with that. It had been worth it to save her, and to be able to touch her afterwards. But to be without her now…

What was his purpose in this life now? He was Talia al Ghul's protector. And now, he had no Talia to protect. Bane closed his eyes at the realization.

Her face instantly came to his mind. The last image he had of her while he held the Batman down, and they had eleven minutes of life left. He focused on that face in his head, her beautiful face, her silky brown hair, and her full lips. When she'd gently touched his mask for what was supposed to have been for the last time, he'd glanced at those lips, and desperately wanted to rip his mask off, if only for a few seconds, and kiss her.

He'd never gotten the chance to actually kiss Talia. His medicine had been too important for too long.

Bane almost cringed when her last words came to his mind now, her voice smooth and exotic as always.

_Goodbye, my friend_.

And he'd just stood there, and watched her leave. He could remember the raw emotion inside him as he watched her walk away from him. That was the last image he would always have of her now.

But right beneath his grief, he oddly felt relief. Relief from knowing what had happened to her, finally. Relief knowing that she no longer had to suffer from the hostilities of this world. Relief that she was not locked up like he was, and had to endure the judicial system for her crimes.

His relief felt like a drug, a spiked drink that made him somewhat calm. So he hung on to it.

He could remember lying here other nights, thinking about Talia, constant thoughts that would drive him crazy. It was then that he realized, all the nights thinking about her and planning for what would happen next, he'd unintentionally given himself hope.

_There can be no true despair without hope. _

Bane squeezed his eyes shut and refused to go back to that place inside him. Instead, he hung on to the relief so he could push back the despair.

Camille suddenly came to his mind. His caring, almost maternal doctor. And how she'd stepped in front of him so the guards wouldn't tackle him because he'd switched the rules a tad. She knew the whole time Talia was dead. And he could remember her face as she told him, an expression that was sorry, apprehensive, and… understanding. And as much as he was grateful for the small things she'd done for him, he would use her to leave this place. Talia would not have wanted him to rot here. And he would honor her death by thriving once again.

Gotham City had taken his love from him. Who was Bane now that she was gone?

He was still Bane, he told himself. And he would destroy this place. Gotham's day of reckoning was still yet to come.

* * *

Camille had given Bane a few days before she scheduled their next appointment together. She didn't feel it right to send him back to therapy after telling her his whole relationship with Talia al Ghul, and then her having to report to him that she was deceased. The weekend had come and gone, and on the morning of the next workday, Camille prepared to speak with her patient again.

It would be interesting, she mused as she walked to the session room. Interesting how therapy would continue now that Bane had been told the truth. How would their own relationship work now that he had nothing to hide? Now that he had been told they knew everything?

The temperature outside was slowly beginning to drop as autumn arrived. Camille loved the fall. She dressed for the weather by choosing brown pants and matching shirt underneath a tan sweater. On her feet were brown ankle boots, and her lips coated the color of creamed coffee. She'd pulled her black curls into a ponytail before getting out of the car. She hated how to wind would blow her hair onto her painted lips.

Camille placed her palm on the scanner for reading and then briskly walked into the session room, placing her things down and settling in to do her job. She was surprised to find Bane looking the same as always – she'd expected a lot worse – and was even more surprised at his abrupt words.

"I want to leave this place."

Camille blinked and lifted a dark brow. "Excuse me?"

"I don't care where I go. Blackgate Prison, Alcatraz, back to _Peña Dura. _It doesn't matter where they send me. But I do not want to be _here_ anymore."

She narrowed her eyes at him. This was definitely not what she'd expected to come to today. But what _had_ she expected? "That's not really your decision, Bane. Or mine."

"But you can start the process. I've told you that I do not belong here. And I wish to leave."

"Bane…" She was at a loss for words, and very much unprepared for this conversation. Did he really think that she could just request that he be moved? He really was out of his mind if he thought that was the case. She tried speaking gently to him to help him understand. "I'm sorry, but that just isn't possible. The government has ordered that you reside here."

"Under what grounds? You cannot keep me here if you have no probable cause. And you know that I am not insane, as they've labeled me." His eyes held challenge in them, and determination. "You are my doctor. Your reports matter. So, I ask you again, Dr. Lane. Under what grounds are they keeping me here?"

Camille stared at him before sighing. He thought she knew he wasn't insane. Those were his words. Did she think that? Did she believe it? As a psychiatrist, she could only go by the evidence.

"It was a long process, to figure out where they should put you once it was apparent that you would survive your injuries," she began, and wondered if she should be telling him these things at all. "So many other maximum security establishments were considered. During all the meetings, your case was reviewed countless times. Dr. Arkham showed up to one of them, and gave them that probable cause you mentioned before. You were sent here to the asylum when the government was given evidence that you were suffering from schizophrenia. "

It was Bane who blinked this time. He didn't think anything could shock him anymore. He'd seen so many horrible things and had done a lot of them himself. Statements made about him usually didn't affect him at this point. But this news was different.

"Schizophrenia," he repeated slowly, and thought he could almost laugh. Instead, he started to feel anger. "And what evidence do you have in your little file on me, Doctor?"

Watching him coolly and deciding that her speaking with him today about the grieving process was no longer an option, she carelessly opened the folder and read to him. "Patient 0977, Bane. Diagnosis, schizophrenia. Mental case for patient is built on the main evidence of manic depression, substance abuse, attempted suicide, grossly disorganized behavior, and social and/or occupational dysfunction. Patient to begin receiving psychiatric care for diagnosis with Dr. Camille Lane of Arkham Asylum."

Keeping his eyes on her, Bane repeated the word in his head. _Schizophrenia_. They kept him here in this horrible place because Dr. Jeremiah gave the government a few options that he might have schizophrenia. Bane found it insulting. He shouldn't be here. He was here because of a lie.

_People fear what they can't understand_.

Camille spoke again. "The first three of the criteria come up more frequently. Manic depression, because of your life in prison and relationship with Talia al Ghul. Substance abuse, because of your constantly breathing in painkillers. And suicide, because, along with the rest of the city, you were going to kill yourself for your cause." She took a deep breath as she closed the file, and looked back at him while lifting a shoulder. "The rate of suicide in patients with schizophrenia is up five percent."

"And, as a licensed doctor, you believe this evidence?"

She shrugged. "I can only go by the facts. The facts are relevant. It's my job to treat you according to the evidence."

"And it is also your job to be sure that the evidence is undeniable."

"I haven't denied the possibility of schizophrenia at this time."

His eyes darkened as he gave her a mutinous glare. "And why is that, Dr. Lane?"

She didn't feel a sting from his expression towards her. Instead, she felt the need to defend and make him understand her side of things. "Okay," she breathed, and scooted her chair closer, ready to debate. "Let's take your past actions. The robberies, the kidnappings, the murders, and the revolution itself. Just think about everything that you've done. The normal, sane person does not participate in those things and just continues on his merry way. Men just like you have all been diagnosed with mental illness, which was substantiated. And you're no different. Based on your actions, going by how many people you've killed and hurt, there's a category for that. So I'm sorry if you don't like your placement," she continued with her own glare. "The reasons for that placement are all there."

Bane stared at her for a few more moments before slowly releasing his glare. His eyes wandered her face, and slowly dropped to her neck that was dressed with her small gold cross. He was impressed with her, but wanted to get his hands around that pale neck at the same time. "Tell me your professional opinion on why I did the things I did."

"Why?"

He smirked at her, the first positive expression he'd made since hearing of Talia's death. And while his heart still ached for his dead love, he still had things he needed to accomplish, for her. And he couldn't do that while locked up here, a constant reminder of what society had submitted him to. He couldn't stand being here any longer. "Perhaps it will give me more understanding, Doctor."

Camille stared at him. Alright, she thought. If he wanted to hear the hard facts, then she would give them to him. She wasn't going to back down now that he was having a little hissy fit.

"There are different reasons why people behave certain ways," she began, smoothing back her ponytail and keeping her eyes on his. "This goes for killers as well. Some killers are driven by ego, which puts their needs first and refuses to accept the limits on their behavior. The serial killer kills because he likes to feel powerful, in control. The business man will murder his mistress after she threatens to tell his wife, because he honestly believes that his own desire for security is more important than another person's life. Or it can be the teenager who pulls the trigger just because he feels like it." She considered him a moment before starting again, and saw that he was intently listening to her, just like he always was when she spoke to him. "But there is another kind of killer. The morality killer. That's the person who walks into a church and opens fire because he believes it's his duty. Or the person who shoots the abortion doctors because she believes they are committing sin. These people don't kill to satisfy their ego, but because they believe such an act is right."

Bane watched her as she spoke, and then lifted a brow. "And which category have you put me in, Dr. Lane? The immature, or the righteous?"

She held his gaze, and refused to worry about his reaction to her words. Instead, she kept everything truthful and professional. Hard facts were hard to deal with in some patients. "Going by your actions last year, I would say righteous. You started a revolution to liberate the people, and gave a woman a chance at revenge simultaneously."

The conversation was too interesting. And even though Bane could feel his body giving up, feel the pain radiating throughout his limbs, he couldn't give in now. "I believe it was Freud who said everything we do communicates something about ourselves." He painfully smiled at her expression. "I do have a brain in my head, Dr. Lane. According to Freud, the dress you pick, the jewelry you wear, the pretty lipsticks you buy, all say something about you. Nothing is random. Everything has purpose. You want to find out who I am? Where I fall under?" His soft, accented words held a little fury in them now. His voice was deep and breaking every now and then from what Camille would guess was the pain. "The terrorist type of killer goes after people of a certain faith, but can also equally target any man, woman, or child. The morality killer goes after the abortion doctor because of what he does for a living, and nothing more. And then there is me. What do my actions from last year tell you about me?"

Camille stared into his eyes as she thought and considered. How could this man know so much? How could a man like Bane be here, when he could have been so many other things? He was so smart. But then again, everyone knew that. The city had seen his intelligence, experienced it firsthand. And here she was, trying to analyze him. "You believe strongly in what you stand for. You could fit into any of the molds."

"Which just goes to show you, my dear doctor, all you _molds_, all your _mental illnesses_ and _categories_ for people like me, just give you an excuse as to why your profession exists in the first place." He liked feeling the heat of her sudden irritation from that, and continued on. "My reasons for last year are my own. Not a statistic." He almost spat out the word, and stared at her intensely as he slightly leaned forward over the table at her, never leaving her black eyes and never blinking. She wanted a piece of his mind, so he would tell her the truth about life, about actions. But a part of him believed that once she left this place, once she changed into her regular clothes and went home to her depression pills, that she already understood life, and its cruelties.

"Freud was wrong, Dr. Lane," he continued softly. "We pave our own path, we choose our own destinies. And sometimes, dear one, those destinies must be carried out for us by others. If Talia had not come to find me again, to bring the plan to my attention, where could you tell me I'd be? What would have become of me then?"

She went to open her mouth to answer him, to say _something_. But nothing would come out. She had no professional statement for that. What _would_ Bane have done last year if there'd been no plan? Would he have just done something equally as menacing? Or would he be just another nameless human walking the earth with the rest of them?

Was it possible to do the things Bane had done, and still be completely sane?

She gave up trying to come up with something intelligent, and simply lifted her shoulder. "I don't know."

Bane took a deep breath and tried to stretch his back, but only received more burning down the scar on his spine. He held in a groan, and leaned back into the chair. He pitied her now, his sweet doctor who was only trying to help him. He decided to give her something for her notes so she would be happy and feel accomplished. And so she would give him another pill.

"Regardless of Talia's motives, I believed in what we were doing. I believed in our revolution. And I believed in burning this city. Ra's al Ghul may have disliked me, may not have understood my affection for Talia, but he did teach me. He trained me. He took me in, even if it only meant I was to be cast out. And once I was, I knew how to survive in the real world outside my prison. I adapted." Bane tilted his head to the side some as he studied her face. She was watching him intently, almost student-like. And he decided then that she really was beautiful. "This city deserved to burn. And… I think you know that too. I would have died with it to make sure it felt the fire, to make sure it screamed and choked on the smoke."

He paused to let everything sink in. She thought he was the one who needed true understanding. But really, it was for her. "And because Talia asked me to."

* * *

Later on, inside his cell and his session with Camille over, Bane sat on his bed. In his hand was the small white pill she'd given him like always. A tiny circle of oxycodone she thought would help with his condition. But she was mistaken. Nothing would help him. Nothing could soothe him.

Nothing, except his mask and its contents.

Bane set the tiny pill on the bed beside him and stared at the halls of Arkham Asylum, watching as Ronnie Pierce made his rounds and checked inside the cells to make sure everyone was behaving.

He already knew Camille would do nothing to get him out of here. But it was nice to throw her for a loop on the matter. He knew he was here because of the military and their constant fear of him. And he knew that they had to come up with some excuse to get him to stay here, like diagnosing him with schizophrenia.

And poor Dr. Camille didn't even realize it. She was really trying to help, the poor thing. She'd told him that she hadn't denied his diagnosis yet professionally. But he could tell, just by watching her as she spoke and how she reacted to him, that she'd never believed it personally. She was smart. He knew she was. And she was very much lost.

But none of that mattered anymore. A plan was in motion.

He remembered snippy little Selina Kyle, and the few jobs she'd done for him. He remembered speaking with her, telling her what was expected of her, and the phrase he'd used to frighten her, one that she'd used herself on unsuspecting Bruce Wayne. It was fitting, and it was true.

_There's a storm coming_.

**TBC**

**A/N: Wow, that was a lot of conversation. But I hoped you all enjoyed it. Thank you for all your Bane/Talia thoughts. They were very interesting. I, myself, wasn't very weirded out by the fact that Bane knew her as a kid and still fell in love with her. They were reborn together, changed into their true selves together while in the League of Shadows. So I had some more understanding on the matter when I thought of it that way. Now, I would love to hear everyone's favorite Bane line of the whole movie. I know it's hard, because he had so many great ones. The ones I love the most are, "Peace has cost you your strength. Victory has defeated you" and "The shadows betray you, because they belong to **_**me**_**!" His voice was amazing on that last one. Thank you so much for your reviews! I love you all. **


	10. Master Passion Greed

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 10**

**Master Passion Greed**

"_All within me gone but pain and hope. Hoping that the pain will fade away." – Nightwish_

Camille clicked on the pause button on her computer and blinked her eyes, trying to bring moisture back into them. She pressed on her closed eyes – not too hard since she didn't want to run her mascara – and reached inside her purse for the eye-drops she always had stored. After popping in a few drops and taking a big gulp from the coffee mug at her elbow, she turned her attention back to the screen in front of her.

She didn't have an appointment scheduled with Bane today, but that didn't mean she could just stay home and relax. She had loads of work to do concerning him. She had to review her notes and get a report in to Dr. Arkham, she had to constantly monitor Bane's health and make sure he didn't take another turn for the worst like he had on her birthday, she had to come up with new exercises to try with him – especially now since he had the death of Talia al Ghul to deal with – and she had to deal with the media, and keeping them off her back and onto Dr. Arkham's, just the way he liked it.

Camille rolled her eyes as she pictured Jeremiah's smug face as he discussed Bane and his treatment with the flash of cameras in his face.

And now, she thought, bringing her full attention back to her office computer screen, she had been given this little token for her case with Gotham's liberator.

After the police department had done all they could do with it, they'd sent over the one and only security footage they had of Bane during the revolution. The date and time at the bottom of the screen told her that it had been recorded only about a day before the bomb had been set to go off, and the location had been in the courthouse, where Jonathon Crane had held his _hearings_ and Bane was seen quite frequently, up in one of the big offices in the second story. There, he'd supposedly held 'Miranda Tate' hostage as more of the people just a staircase below were sentenced to death or exile.

Camille was thankful that she'd had nothing to do with that part of the revolution.

After the bomb had went off over the bay thanks to the Batman, and the police had begun to arrest all those they could find that had served Bane, Commissioner Gordon had ordered all security tapes from all the locations the mercenaries seemed to frequent often taken and reviewed. Unfortunately for them, many had been destroyed previously, except for the little gem they'd fallen upon upstairs in the courthouse.

The police had no use for it now that Bane was locked up in the asylum. So the property had been given to Camille, as Bane's doctor, to be analyzed for his treatment.

Taking another sip of her coffee, Camille decided to rewind the whole tape – not that it was very long – and start from the beginning again.

In an office as big as a good sized living room, 'Miranda Tate' was standing in front of a large window, peering down at the courts and watching Judge Crane sentence those who Bane and his men thought deserved to be judged for their actions concerning the city and its people. She held her jacket tight around her body, and her hair had been pulled back into a loose braid. If someone hadn't known the exact details, they would definitely say that this woman looked like a poor, unfortunate hostage of Bane's, only there because of her status in the city and because the mercenary knew the Bat would come for her.

And until that someone would see the mercenary himself come through the door to calmly stand next to her, the way he would look at her, they would understand that she was not a poor hostage at all.

There was no sound to the footage, and from the angle of the camera she stared at their backs. Camille watched as Bane removed his huge brown jacket and set it across a nearby chair. He then lifted his arm and slowly ran his hand down the back of Talia al Ghul's hair. She leaned over to say something to him, then wandered away to remove her own jacket. Camille could see them perfectly now. Talia was speaking and Bane would listen. And because of the quality of the camera and her lack in the ability to read lips, Camille didn't know what she was saying to him.

Camille squinted her eyes and focused on Bane. She found it amazing the way he would look at the woman. It was a look that every female craved from their man, that completely devoted and loving stare. Camille tilted her head to the side slightly as she watched him. She knew that look perfectly. She'd made the same one every time Jackson had spared her a glance, before and even after they'd divorced. And because she knew that look, she knew exactly how much Bane had loved Talia.

Pulling her eyes away from him, Camille then looked at the woman he'd wanted to die for. She was rambling on about something, and had this little glint in her eyes, this little smirk on her pretty face. Camille's own eyes narrowed as she watched a woman be completely ecstatic at what she was doing to an entire city, what she was doing to all the people who lived in it. And, with her psychiatrist's eye, Camille watched a woman embrace her madness.

And noticed that she held no look of the same utter devotion as her partner did.

Camille watched as Talia went silent, and figured that Bane was speaking to her now. She watched as he slowly went to her, and lifted his hands to embrace her face. He leaned his forehead against hers, no doubt whispering things unknown to Camille, and softly caressed her face. Talia smiled at him and said something back.

And there was that look in his eyes again. That look that was making Camille's chest feel tight.

Bane tilted his head to the side, almost as if he was going to kiss her but of course couldn't because of his mask, and then he wrapped Talia's body in his arms and held her against his chest. He seemed to bury his face in her hair as he held her, a gesture that was probably going to be the last time they could be alone.

Camille watched as a grinning Talia rested her cheek on his shoulder. Her hands lifted as they began to caress his body, almost marveling, almost possessively. Almost like a trophy. And Camille found herself frowning.

She was a smart woman, and definitely knew how the female mind worked, especially the devious ones. She'd lived for years under her own mother's insidious mind. And Camille knew, without a doubt, that Talia al Ghul didn't carry the same feelings Bane held for her since they began their affair.

The way her hands caressed him, the way her eyes held the word _mine_ in them as she touched his massive and very strong body, Camille knew that Bane had been nothing more than an asset to Talia. Her most valuable tool.

Camille stopped the video, knowing that it would only stop a few seconds later since the police had edited out what she knew was Bane and Talia's last intimate meeting together, and sat back in her chair to make notes.

It was easy for someone who'd never known the comfort of another human to gravitate all feelings into the first one to come along. Bane had taken care of Talia when she'd been a child, kept her safe from other lustful monsters who would only break her. And once she'd grown into a woman, Bane had seen her as something else entirely. He'd seen a strong woman, a woman he'd become very attracted to, a woman that had told him she would belong to him and him only when she knew of his feelings.

But when that woman had revenge on the brain, when she had a man who had a body of physical perfection completely adore her, she would know how to use him, and use him to suit her in all ways.

Bane had told Camille that Talia had belonged to him. It was easy for her to understand now that Bane had most certainly belonged to Talia.

When making a note of that, Camille found herself angry. She'd seen the workings of a woman who used her body and a man's affections for her to her advantage. Her mother had been the very same way. She'd loved the chase, the way a man would constantly do anything to be with her, and for her to be with him and only him. She knew the thought process of women like that better than anything. And hated Talia for doing the same thing to Bane. For being like her mother, for manipulating a man because of his love.

She had to help Bane understand this. She had to help him see, so he could let that part of him go. She would not let her patient suffer the way she'd had to with the woman who'd given birth to her regrettably.

And as she thought of Bane, she remembered their last conversation, and how he wished to leave the asylum, not caring where he would be sent afterwards.

That, too, made Camille angry.

Bane had tried fighting her on the schizophrenia diagnosis. He'd told her near the end of their session that it was ridiculous, and that it was… well, bullshit, to say the least, although someone of Bane's personality wouldn't use such colorful words. Or at least, she thought he didn't. He'd told her that the criteria for that particular diagnosis couldn't possibly hold up for schizophrenia. Where, along with the other symptoms, were his delusions, his hallucinations, his paranoia, his disorganized speech? _Everyone_ can hold _some _symptoms of schizophrenia, he'd told her. So to have pinned just a few on him was outlandish thinking. She was a licensed psychiatrist, he'd said to her. She should _know_ these things.

Of course Camille knew those things, she thought, scolding her patient in her head for thinking so little of her. Of course she knew Bane didn't have schizophrenia. Of course she knew Jeremiah had only given the right evidence to the government so they would decide to send Bane to his establishment so he could have his media frenzy. And of course she knew, that at this time, Bane didn't seem to be suffering from any mental illness that she could think of, because there really was _no_ evidence. It puzzled her.

But Camille wasn't stupid. She knew how to do her job. And the only reason why she'd told Bane that she hadn't denied the possibility of him actually having schizophrenia was because she'd felt oddly hurt that after everything she was doing for him, how hard she was working for him, that he would just forget about all that and want to leave. She was putting blood, sweat, and tears into this case. Especially now since it was heading close to home for her personally.

How dare Bane want to leave her after everything she'd done for him. But she wouldn't give up. She'd do her job and do it right. And after she rehabilitated him, he could go twiddle his thumbs in Blackgate for all she cared.

Camille rubbed her temples and shook her head. No, she told herself. She would not let herself go down that route. She couldn't.

But because she felt herself going there, she pulled out her Lexapro and swallowed one down.

Behind her, her fax machine came to life and started spitting out a paper. After guzzling down the rest of her coffee and wishing for more, Camille picked it up and read yet another threatening message.

_You think I don't know what you're doing? You think I don't know that he's still alive? I know, and I'm waiting, Dr. Lane. Patiently, for now. Kill him for me, or you will take his place. I promise you. We will not cower before him ever again. Kill the monster Bane! _

Camille glared at the note and wanted to rip it in two. Instead, she decided to add it to her ever growing pile at home.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered, angrily stuffing the paper inside her bag and reaching for her lipstick.

As she glided the dark red bullet across her lips she heard a soft tap at her office door, and called for whoever it was to enter after smacking her lips together.

Jeremiah Arkham sauntered through the door with his hands in the pockets of his Armani suit. Camille sat up straighter in her chair while dropping her lipstick back into her purse.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Lane. How's work coming along?"

Camille rubbed her hands down the skirt of her black dress as she scooted closer to her desk. "It's progressing. I was just reviewing the security tape again. How was your press conference?"

Jeremiah smirked as he glanced around her small office. Camille felt she was going through one of the standard cell inspections as the patients often did. "Wonderful, thank you. The city is pleased to know that Bane is no longer a threat here in my establishment."

"No decisions were made concerning him without my being there, I hope."

Jeremiah eyed her through his glasses. "If there were, I expect you to deal with it. And while no actual decisions were made, many suggestions were given. And considered."

Camille narrowed her eyes and tried not to seem too pissed off. He was still her boss, and she had to remember her place. She just hated that her place as Bane's doctor didn't seem to matter too much to him. "Can I ask what kind of suggestions?"

Jeremiah took a breath before answering her, and glanced around her office space and her desk again. No pictures of anyone, he thought. No little trinkets, all business. He wondered what kind of life this homebody had outside his asylum. "There was talk that his oxycodone be reconsidered. Many valid points were made during that discussion. Daily injections were also brought up, to make sure he'd be rendered completely useless. Shock therapy was also suggested." His voice cheered up on that part, and he saw her eyes slowly darken. As he knew they would.

"What do you think of shock therapy for our beloved patient, Dr. Lane?"

"I think that it is a big waste of time and money, Dr. Arkham. Bane has followed all the rules we have here, and has gone to every one of my appointments. And he has gratefully accepted the very insufficient medical supplies we've allowed him for his condition."

He smirked and readjusted his tie before smoothing back his dirty blonde hair. "They were all, of course, just suggestions, Dr. Lane."

He knew he was flustering her. And while it wasn't something he enjoyed very much, he knew with this one he had to be hard. Camille was trying to do the things everyone else thought shouldn't be done. And the longer he considered the options of others, Jeremiah was a constant topic of conversation. He'd worked hard to get Bane here when he found out that the city was going to let him live. And while Jeremiah had hated the idea of Bane staying alive just as much as the people, he still saw it as a moment of opportunity. And because he'd grasped it, the media was jumping through hoops to talk to him.

He liked having others just through hoops for him. And Camille would too, because she worked for him. Because he would say so.

"I hope they stay just suggestions, Dr. Arkham," Camille replied, and gestured to the mass of paperwork still left on her desk. "As you can see I have a lot of work to tend to before I go home."

"Yes, of course." He turned to leave, but spun back around in the doorway with a grin. "Oh, and I wanted to mention to you that another doctor is being considered to work with you. Bane is a tough case, and I think it's in his best interest to have multiple professionals work on him. I understand that his mask and the containers it goes with are residing at your home, for research purposes. And while that was approved, I'm going to need you to return them to me. Tomorrow."

Camille blinked and fisted her hands underneath her desk. "Another doctor? Sir, I'm working as hard as I can. And Bane talks to me. I think it would really jeopardize the case if someone he doesn't know was thrown in as well. It won't be good for his treatment."

Jeremiah shrugged casually. "Still considering it. Bane's effects are to be on my desk first thing in the morning, Dr. Lane."

Camille sucked in a breath as he closed her office door, and began whistling down the hallway. She bared her teeth and let out an exasperated growl at the spot he'd been standing.

"Asshole," she hissed quietly for the hundredth time. "Stupid, pompous _asshole_."

Snarling again, she slumped back into her chair. She hated this place. She hated that man. She hated what was going to become of Bane's case. And she was really starting to hate the people that lived in Gotham City.

Camille reached for her lipstick again.

* * *

_Bane thought his body was on fire. He felt as if he were tied to a stake in the middle of a pile of kindling, feeling the flames lick up his legs while the people around him cheered. _

_And no one cared. He thought he should scream. The fire lapped at his flesh. Now it seared his fingers, starting at the tips and racing up to his elbows. Then it crept up to his shoulders, the flames licking his ears and his lips. The heat gathered and built, forcing its way into his mouth and searing his lungs. His eyeballs felt like they'd melted. He thought he could feel them running down his face as his body wanted to buck. Then the fire was inside his eye sockets, greedily devouring his flesh, while his brains began to boil and his face peeled back from his skull…_

_He jolted, and heard more voices around him. He growled when he felt his mouth being forced open, and numerous tubes being shoved down his scorching throat. He tried to fight back. He couldn't. The pain was too much. So many hands were holding him down. He had no energy. He was going to die. This fire was going to turn him into ash as he screamed. _

_And then he felt the cold. Soothing, wonderful cold air being pumped inside him through his mouth, and slowly distinguishing the flames. He could feel more air being pumped into his nose, and took huge, gasping breaths, breaths he thought he'd never take again. His body continued to jolt as the relief washed over him like a glorious wave from the sea. He knew he was shaking, he knew he was moaning, but he didn't care. The wonderful substance being forced into him was all that mattered, all that existed to him then. The fire was almost out. He could feel life again. _

_Bane felt something being wrapped around his head, around his mouth. They had to keep the tubes in, he heard someone say. The tubes would keep him alive. _

_He could feel himself calming now. He could feel himself cooling down. He could feel life going down his throat, and wanted nothing more than for it to keep the fire away. For it to keep the terrible heat out of his pained and broken body. _

_Later, when he woke, he remembered where he was. He remembered that he was no longer a prisoner inside the pit, inside hell on earth. He remembered that he'd been rescued by a man who called himself Ra's al Ghul, and taken by a group known as the League of Shadows. _

_Bane had been told what was done for him by the doctors in the League. They'd told him that his body had become so overwhelmed by pain that it was trying to tear itself apart. He'd been dying. He'd been burning. _

_But they found a way, they'd told him. They'd slid tubes down his throat, and began pumping painkillers into his body that the average person most likely couldn't take. But because of the condition of his body, he no longer worked like the average person. His body was different. His body would become strong, with a little help to keep the pain away. Help that was now crucial to his survival. _

_They told Bane that he would suffer from severe chronic pain for the rest of his life. And that there was a way to keep that pain just above bearable. _

_He would lose his face. He would lose his mouth. But he would survive. _

_Bane lay in his cot in just a pair of pants, the rags he'd worn everyday locked in the pit. But he'd been rescued from hell. And now, clear tubes came from his mouth, hooked up to machines that were constantly pumping his body with painkillers. They'd tied a scarf around his jaw to cover the tubes going in, so it wouldn't look as obscene as it actually was. They'd told him he would have to get used to it, before they could find an alternative. _

_He'd given them a questioning glance, wondering why they were doing this for him. He couldn't speak, but fortunately the doctors knew what he was thinking. They'd answered and said they were just following their master's orders. And they left. _

_As soon as they were gone, Bane closed his eyes. The things they'd told him didn't matter so much right now. The fire was gone, that was all that was going through his mind. He was grateful for the tubes down his throat, no matter how uncomfortable it felt, or how horrifying it probably looked. _

_He heard the door slowly open again, and kept his eyes closed as he heard a soft pair of footsteps approach him. He didn't want to talk anymore. He just wanted to rest. Who was disturbing him now? _

_He felt a very soft hand rest gently on his forehead. And then the scent came to his nose. He knew that smell. He'd wished for that smell again at night, as he lay in agony after his attack. _

_Bane slowly opened his eyes, and saw heaven. _

_There she was. But it wasn't her. She was different. She was grown. He saw the bright eyes, and the soft smile. He knew those features. He knew that beautiful face. And while he knew those things about her, she'd also changed. _

_Talia was a woman now. _

_His eyes slowly widened as he looked at her, and he felt them fill. The last time he saw her she'd been escaping. She'd been the little girl who cuddled him during the cold nights inside the pit. And now… _

_Bane didn't want to blink in fear that she would leave him again. _

_She smiled at him. "My friend," she murmured to him, and rubbed his head. She didn't seem to care about the tubes, about the condition of his body. She only continued to pet him. _

"_My father saved you," she whispered, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "I found him after I escaped. And he will take care of us. We're free." _

_Looking at her still, Bane reached up and gently placed his hand on her soft cheek. She turned her face into it and gave him another dazzling smile. _

"_I will take care of you now, my love." Talia wiped his tears away and continued to kiss his face. He could only stare at her. Maybe she wasn't real, he would tell himself. But she was. She was right here. "The doctors will fix you. They will make you better. And you will be great." _

_She ran her hand down his arm. She felt his muscles cringe, and she felt their strength. She caressed him and felt happy. She felt relief, and pride. She felt power in those arms of his. _

"_You will be mine," she whispered, and climbed into the cot with him. _

* * *

Bane looked down at his arm, the arm that Talia had caressed when they'd been reunited after he'd been taken from the pit by her father and his men. He remembered her touch, and imagined her soft hand sliding down his flesh again. He would give anything to feel her skin, to run his fingers through her hair, to hear her voice one last time.

He looked up at the ceiling and wished for his memories of Talia to leave him. And he wished they would never go away.

Closing his eyes, he pictured her face. And cursed her for leaving him again.

* * *

It was late, and Camille couldn't sleep. Sleep was useless to her when she was flustered. And because of her boss and his questionable decisions, she was most definitely flustered. The only thing she wanted to do right now was paint her nails, paint them a deep shade of red and kick Jeremiah and his crappy attitude out of her mind.

When she'd returned home from work she instantly went to her kitchen and glanced at Bane's mask, then looked into the fridge to find the canisters that held his medicine. Tomorrow she would have to give them back. She'd wished for a little more time analyzing them, but Jeremiah had stupidly cut that time short.

Slamming the fridge, she cursed him again.

Another doctor, she scolded in her head. That _ass_ was going to assign another doctor to Bane and she had absolutely no say in the matter. Bane didn't need another doctor working with him, he only needed her. What kind of asylum did she actually work for when these kind of decisions were being made? It was mayhem, is what it was.

Maybe she should think about moving to another facility, after her case with Bane was completed, of course. She'd never left a patient high and dry before, and she wouldn't do that to Bane either. But once he was done…

She sighed and fell onto her couch. She couldn't afford to try and find another job right now. And it was really only Jeremiah that was the problem. Everything else about the place was okay. Plus, working at Arkham Asylum was a pretty big thing in this city, considering that all their local whacks were sent there.

After doing what she wanted and finished her nails, Camille fanned them in the air and thought about how Bane would take another doctor working with him. She didn't think he would like it. Or, she hoped he didn't. She rested her chin in her hand while sitting on her couch, and tried to picture his face when she would tell him the news.

She couldn't think of a reaction, but his face did come to her mind. It was shame that he was such a handsome man. She thought of his green eyes, and how they could almost look right through you from all the intensity. Did he look at everybody that way? She thought of his lips, and how surprisingly full they were.

Then she thought of his body, and instantly shook her head.

What the hell was she doing? she asked herself. And decided to ignore the same tight feeling in her lower stomach.

Camille fell back onto her couch and told herself she needed to get a grip.

Suddenly, her cell phone rang. She sat up and her chest instantly felt tight. No one called at this time of night unless it was something urgent. And it was just a little before midnight. Scrambling for her phone, she hit answer.

"Hello?"

"Camille, it's Ronnie. You need to get here fast. I think he's having a seizure or something."

She drew her brows together. "Who is? Bane?"

"Yeah. It doesn't look good. What do you want me to do? He's shaking."

Camille jumped up and ran into her bedroom to throw on the same black dress she'd worn to work earlier. "Call the nurses on staff to tend to him until I get there." Without thinking of comfort, she quickly slipped on her black pumps and grabbed her purse. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Keep him calm and don't let him hurt himself."

* * *

Camille hurriedly parked her car and rushed into the asylum. She scurried as fast as her heels would allow her – Why on _earth_ did she put those on again? – and pulled down the long black sleeves to her dress to keep the chill away. She didn't know what she'd been thinking. The skirt ended just a little above her knees, it was freezing, and now her patient was having an attack at midnight and she would have to take care of him in a skimpy dress.

She reached Bane's hallway. Ronnie was running up to her.

"He's stopped breathing, Dr. Lane." He trotted along next to her as they headed for Bane's cell. "I called the nurses, but no one's arrived yet."

"Call them again," she snapped. "And where the hell are the other guards?"

"This is the night shift," he told her, thinking himself old that he could barely keep up with a brisk woman in too tall heels. "I'm pretty much by myself on this level until two am."

"I need you to call Dr. Arkham and tell him I'm giving Bane medication. I don't care what he says."

Ronnie nodded and went to do just that.

Camille set her hand on the palm print for the reading, and stepped back as Bane's cell bars were slowly lifted. She saw him just lying in his bed, completely comatose. She rushed up, and felt his neck for a pulse. She found it, and started patting his chest and his cheek.

"Bane? Wake up, it's Camille. Open your eyes."

And he simply did.

She froze and stared at him. As he calmly pulled the blanket off his shirtless body and started to sit up, she instantly removed her hands from his neck and face. Her heels clicked on the floor as she took two steps back, and felt the heavy weight of regret on her shoulders, the sickness in her stomach that she had done something wrong.

And just as Camille was about to yell, a hand was slapped over her mouth and an arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She jolted and tried screaming, but the hand only pressed harder to silence her. The arm squeezed her body against a chest behind her. And because she was only a little over five feet tall, she didn't have much strength to struggle.

She started breathing heavy – maybe she was having a panic attack? - and noticed that Bane had been in front of her the whole time. She tried to turn, to see who was hurting her.

And looked into the eyes of Ronnie Pierce.

A scream built up in her throat, but was cut short when Bane started to speak.

"Don't be too rough on her, Officer," he said calmly, and groaned some when he stretched. "I need her."

Camille watched helplessly and fisted her hands at her restrained sides. She watched as Bane ripped a spot of his mattress apart. He reached inside. What he pulled out made her gasp against Ronnie's hand.

In Bane's palm held every single oxycodone she'd ever given him.

She looked into his eyes and saw him smiling at her, almost thankfully. He saluted her, and dumped all the pills into his mouth.

He continued to sit on his bed as he waited for the pills to kick in. And she could tell the exact moment they did. He took a very deep breath, let it out slowly, and started to stand.

Camille had never been up close to him when he would stand up straight to his full height. She'd either been too far away to fully grasp how tall he was, or he'd always been slouching from the pain during all their sessions together. Now, she took in fully how massive this man really was.

Maybe the pain was gone now. Maybe it was weakened just a tad from all the oxycodone. She didn't know. It didn't matter.

Camille's eyes widened and her body instinctively cringed back a little as Bane's large shadow encompassed her completely.

**TBC**

**A/N: And, regrettably, I leave you all with this for two weeks. I'll be leaving LA for family on the east coast. I hate doing this to you, but I must. Thank you for everything, my darlings. Review for me while I'm gone. Bane and Camille will return soon for part two. **


	11. 115

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 11**

**115**

"_No one can see me, and I've lost all feeling and I know I won't die alone. I'll stop you from breathing and all your deceiving, and this house is not my home." – Elena Siegman _

For as long as she'd lived, Camille had never believed in happy endings. She knew that life had seemed to work out for some people, and she accepted that, envied that. But when it came to her own life, she knew that after everything she'd endured growing up with her family, everything she'd gone through during her failing marriage and eventual divorce, that life would hold no happy surprises for her. And she'd accepted that too. She was too broken, too cynical now to accept anything else. Maybe some people thought she was ungrateful. She had a college degree, the title of Doctor, a career, and her own place. But those same people didn't know what came with it all.

An abusive family, her manipulative mother, an ex-husband she still longed for, depression.

And now this.

Betrayed by Arkham Asylum's head of security, and about to be given to Gotham City's number one prisoner like a pretty present on Christmas.

Camille felt her chest start to hurt, and realized that she'd been holding her breath. Ronnie still had her mouth covered. She sucked in a big breath through her nostrils and glanced at the giant in front of her.

_He was so big_.

Bane rolled his shoulders as he stood to his full height, relishing in the fear and panic his size was giving his much shorter doctor. The way his body was feeling now after eating the handful of oxycodone made him somewhat content. The pills had only weakened his pain just enough so he wouldn't be so sluggish and weak for his escape from this hell hole, and the effects would last long enough so he could get back to what he wanted most.

And what he wanted most, he was told by Ronnie Pierce, was residing inside the home of Dr. Lane.

Bane looked at her now. Ronnie had her in a hard grip, and he could see the skin on her face was white from the pressure of his hand as he held her silent. He'd almost expected hysterical tears from her, or at least some whimpering. All he could sense was her heavy breathing, and a slight tremor coursing through her body as her black eyes stared large before him.

Ronnie's voice removed Bane's eyes from hers.

"Tell me what to do next. We have about an hour and a half before I'm relieved from my shift."

Bane cracked his neck before her answered, the sound loud and almost making Ronnie cringe. "I'll require a pair of shoes, and some duck tape, Officer. Then I need you to pull her car up to the back entrance. I assume you handled the problem of security?"

Ronnie nodded. "The cameras are taken care of, but for precautions I need you to stay in the cell until I come get you. I have access to just about everything involving security in this place."

At that, Camille felt sick inside. Who knew he'd be so easily corruptible? And she was going to be the one to pay.

Bane looked back down at her. "Give her to me. And be quick."

Shouldn't he be feeling some kind of guilt? Camille thought. Shouldn't Ronnie realize that this was wrong? So many questions. And yet, Ronnie easily handed her over to Bane.

Ronnie had been strong. Camille knew that when it came to strength, there really was no contest between a man and a woman. Ronnie had overpowered her and kept her still against him. But to be held by Bane now was something else. His very large hand went over her mouth, his fingers resting beneath her ears. He squeezed slightly, making sure that no sound whatsoever would escape from her lips, and wrapped his arm around her waist, turning her so her back was against his solid bare chest. She was too scared to move, too angry at herself for falling for such a silly trick, and kept her arms locked against her sides, afraid that he might hurt her. Like he had hurt so many others. _What had she been thinking, coming here tonight?_

Ronnie scurried off to go do what he'd been told.

Bane breathed steadily against her. The flow of air didn't sound as painfully raspy as it had been before he'd swallowed the insane amount of pills. Camille wished then that his body didn't work differently from others. He'd most certainly be overdosing about now. But his body _was_ different, and it could hold the oxycodone in his stomach.

Bane looked down at her, and tilted her head to the side. "You shouldn't hate him," he murmured against her ear, his voice low. "I caught him in an unfortunate situation while he was speaking to his wife. And for someone in such a high level of authority for one of Gotham's most valued establishments, he broke before me, and cried like a baby."

Camille clenched her teeth together, which only made Bane tighten his grip on her jaw, and squirmed against him. She didn't want to hear this. She wanted to go home. But he only continued.

"His boy is very sick, you see. He has cancer. The bills are steadily piling up by the day. His wife is slowly slipping into insanity because she cannot help her child. She blames him. His income is nothing compared to what they charge him for treatments. His precious son is _rotting_. And the money is gone."

Camille closed her eyes, hoping that his voice would stop, wishing that she didn't have to hear this. She knew Ronnie's child was sick. And she did nothing to help him. No one had. Except for Bane. Her back was to him and her body held firmly in place, but in her mind, she could see him clearly. And she knew exactly who he was.

He was Bane. He was the cause of misery. And she had known him most of her life. He was a piece of herself, her past coming back to get her, the misery that choked her as the years went by. The minute she'd given into her mother's manipulations, she'd had plummeted into the abyss, and he was simply the misery in human form that had been waiting her whole life to find her again.

"And so," he murmured again, wanting her to hear it. "I have offered him the money he needs for his services tonight. He will help his son. You should not feel so betrayed by him, _Camille_." He teased her now, using her first name because she'd told him that it wasn't appropriate. But the tables had turned, and he would do what he wanted.

Ronnie soon returned with the supplies. The officer held Camille in place as Bane promptly covered her mouth firmly with two pieces of duck tape. After that, he pushed her against the cell wall, Ronnie's weapon pointed at her now so she wouldn't try to escape. Along with a pair of black boots he'd found in storage downstairs big enough to fit him, Ronnie had also brought Bane a black men's wife beater to cover his chest from the cold outside to go with the ugly gray scrub pants he still wore. After he was dressed, Bane grabbed Camille again. He slid his arm underneath her right arm, grabbing her jaw again for assurance that she would make no sound at all, and held her firmly against his chest once more. He nodded at Ronnie to lead the way.

"Stay behind me. You move when I move. Her car's ready out back."

Bane's strides were long. He practically dragged Camille in her big heels and short black dress as they made their way down Arkham's dark halls. Because his grip on her jaw was so hard, Camille held firmly onto his hand that covered her mouth with her own two, trying uselessly to ease the pressure around her face. At one point she stumbled, and her heels were dragged across the floor as he continued on. She looked in a few of the cells, hoping that _one_ of the patients would call for help or at least report of this to the next guard to walk by. But when Bane dragged her passed the cell that housed the beautiful woman with the long red hair, Camille knew that she was just giving herself false hope.

The woman in the cell smiled beautifully at her, and blew her a kiss.

Camille's eyes widened again as the woman grew farther away while Bane dragged her along, and felt the anger start to build within her chest.

They made it outside. Camille's little white car was parked at the curb, the lights on and her purse sitting in the front seat. The skin on her exposed legs from her black dress shivered slightly from the sudden burst of cold air. Ronnie handed Bane his handcuffs. After her hands were shackled behind her, Bane opened the back seat of her car and shoved her inside right before Ronnie pressed the button on her keys to lock the doors. Bane leaned down to glance at her through the window. She didn't have to hear his words. She knew what he was telling her by his expression alone.

_Try to escape, and I will kill you. _

The expression left her feeling overwhelmed and powerless. She hated it.

"The most I can do for you is keep your escape a secret only until morning," Ronnie said, handing him the key to the cuffs around Camille's wrists. "After that, the dogs will hunt you. They won't stop this time until you're dead."

Bane smiled, and appreciated the cold weather against his skin. It had been so long since he'd felt the elements. "I intend to enjoy every second of the hunt. How will you keep your relieving officer from discovering my absence?"

"The age old trick of stuffing some pillows underneath your blanket, of course." He rolled his eyes. "The next guy is dumb. Which is why he works this shift. I'll rig the cameras so it'll appear to have been done by someone who doesn't the system like I do. Got to cover my tracks." Ronnie pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed that to Bane as well. "This is her home address. She knows exactly where your stuff is."

Bane pocketed it along with the key. "You've been a great help to me, Officer."

"And the money? When can I expect it? Alex has chemotherapy next week."

"Expect the transfer shortly. You have my word."

He nodded, and rubbed his hair back. He looked into the window of the car, and saw Camille staring at them intensely. He couldn't feel bad about what he'd done. His child came first. He had to do what was necessary. "How are you going to stay out of sight? The entire city will look for you."

"If the man they call the Joker can stay hidden in this city for years, then it most definitely should not be a problem."

Bane stared at Ronnie for a few moments. Feeling uneasy now, the officer took a small step back. His stomach suddenly became knotted, nausea grabbed hold of his insides. An image of Bane on TV last year suddenly came to his mind. A man who introduced himself as a doctor had suddenly become useless to Bane. And it had not ended well for him. Fear choked him. He was going to lose his dinner right at Bane's feet. He'd made a bad choice.

But the mercenary simply took Camille's car keys from his hand, and have him a slight nod.

"Enjoy the rest of your night, Officer Pierce." Bane walked around the car and hopped into the driver's seat.

As the small car drove away, Ronnie sauntered over to nearby bushes, and vomited.

* * *

Camille's car zipped through the lighted streets of Gotham. Other cars and pedestrians were left in the dust, and a few red lights were even run. But of course, the cops didn't care. Gotham City was no longer as clean as it had been before Bane arrived. The mob was slowly coming into power again, women were once again getting raped in dark alleys, rich children were being kidnapped for ransom, and criminals like Jonathon Crane and Victor Zsasz were still on the loose.

Gotham's finest had a lot on their plate since after the revolution. And a few ignored yellow lights and speeding were only shrugged at and left alone.

Usually, he was a good driver. But Bane was slowly feeling the effects of the oxycodone begin to disappear. His body was dissolving them in no time at all. He needed to get to Camille's apartment as quickly as he could. He needed all the strength and energy he could muster to get there and retrieve what had been taken from him, all the while keeping his hostage from alerting anyone and escaping.

As Bane sped along, he glanced in the rearview mirror to the backseat. What he saw made him grin.

Most women would be crying. Some would hysterically be trying to alert anyone, even after a threat of silence. Some would be curled up on the seat, cowering and praying that nothing horrible would happen to them. That they would be returned to their homes and families, even knowing the statistics of abducted victims were not in their favor, especially in Gotham.

Camille sat calmly on her back seat, her hands still cuffed behind her, and glared at him immensely into the mirror.

He continued to grin and drive as he noticed the black makeup around her eyes had been smudged and smeared from escaped tears. But by her expression and the energy she was generating inside the small space of her little car, Bane knew that they were simply tears of pure rage, an anger almost manifesting into a physical presence. He knew her jaw was clenched and her hands fisted behind her. He knew her thoughts for the moment. She wanted to pound him, smack him again and again for disrupting her boring, dead life. Beat him just as he'd once been beaten, and never stop.

Bane relished in her rage, and used it to keep him going before the pain would return once more.

He pulled into her apartment complex's parking lot, keeping to the dark shadows just in case she lived in a place with top notch security. Going by the look of her building and its surroundings, he didn't think it would be much of a problem. Why was a licensed psychiatrist living here when she could have afforded so much better?

His time with her would most definitely be interesting.

He grabbed her purse before exiting her car. Once he roughly pulled her from the backseat, he held her against the closed door and looked into her exasperated black eyes. Her heels were still on her feet and the skirt of her black dress had been hiked up her thighs from the manhandling. And because he _was_ a gentleman when the situation called for it, Bane gently pulled the hem back down for her.

"Listen to me," he murmured, and grabbed her underneath her chin. "If you scream, I will break your jaw. If you alert anyone, I will kill them, and it will be your fault. If you flee from me, I will burn your home down with everyone inside it. Am I understood?"

Her glare never eased an inch. But she nodded.

"Wonderful. Brace yourself."

Bane grabbed the tape, and ripped it from her mouth. She only let out a tiny squeal before she was composed again.

"_Bastard_," she hissed at him through clenched teeth.

Bane raised his brow. "You lose some of that educated psychiatrist cool when you are angered, Dr. Camille."

"I'm pretty angry right now. And fuck you."

He turned her and roughly shoved her chest against the car as he unlocked the handcuffs. "What a clever and original comeback for a young lady."

"Why are you doing this to me?"

He turned her back around, and stared into her eyes again. Even though he could have killed anyone in her building that would have spotted them, Bane knew when he had to go with what he was given. He would only lose more of his diminishing strength if he had to deal with someone who would only be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. And he didn't want to do that. It would also give the police a better chance at finding him and subduing him again. Before he brought her inside, and if they happened upon anyone up at one in the morning for whatever reason, Bane would have to make Camille appear as normal she could look.

"I need you," he answered her simply, and lifted his hands to wipe away some of the black smudged makeup underneath her eyes with his thumbs. His eyes dropped down to her lips, and noticed that her red lipstick had also been smudged around her mouth from hands pressing against her, and tape to silence her. He wiped that away as well.

"Stop pouting," he commanded, pulling softly on her lower lip to erase the red underneath.

"I'm not pouting."

"You are. You have very pouty lips, Camille."

She could feel her anger start to leave her, and worried about the sadness that was creeping up, ready to take its place. She didn't want to sink right now, she told herself. She couldn't. Her anger was a much better emotion to feel. Her rage for her patient would keep her out of the dark. She tried desperately to hold onto it. But she feared she would lose that battle soon. She'd always managed to.

Camille looked away from him.

"I thought you were sick. I rushed back to work at midnight to try and help you."

Bane decided to ignore that, and slid her purse onto her shoulder before taking her elbow and leading her to the entrance of her apartment building.

They almost made it to her door. It was right there, within her sight. She prayed that no one would walk outside their home, and be punished because they would see something that they shouldn't. She didn't want to have anyone's death on her hands. She didn't want to deal with that along with everything else she suffered through every day. But of course, she had no luck.

At one in the morning, her eighty-four year old neighbor stepped out into the hallway. And Camille's heart sank.

"Camille, dear," Mrs. Spinelli chirped, glancing around at the floor in front of her. "Have you seen my newspaper?"

Camille couldn't move. She wanted to yell at the woman to close her door and stay quiet so she would be safe. She had to keep her safe. She wanted to ring her neck for asking her the same question every single day, and picking this moment to repeat it.

Mrs. Spinelli looked up, and squinted through her thick glasses. "Oh, you have company. Is this your new boyfriend?"

Camille swallowed, and braced for Bane's attack on her poor brittle neighbor. When nothing happened, and everyone seemed to be waiting on her for an answer, she slowly looked up at Bane. He hadn't made any move to harm her. And maybe, because the woman was so old and legally blind, she could act and lie to keep her safe. She had to.

Mrs. Spinelli smiled at them. "He's quite handsome."

Camille took a few more calming breaths before she forced a big smile, and nodded. "Yes, he is. We have to go to sleep now, Mrs. Spinelli. It's been a long night."

"I guess I shouldn't have my nephew call you, after all."

Camille quickly shook her head, and mentally cursed Bane when he calmly picked up a lock of her hair and moved his fingers down the black curl.

Infuriated once again, she left Mrs. Spinelli and quickly unlocked her apartment. She couldn't deal with someone younger with better vision discovering Bane. They would pay the price because of her, and she couldn't live with that. After they were safely inside and her door was locked and chained, Bane quickly grabbed her arm again.

"I'll ask you now to return my mask to me."

It was then that the full weight of the situation sunk into Camille. Bane said he needed her. And now she knew why. She was the one who had his mask, his precious tool that would bring him back to normal, back to the terrible mercenary who'd held her city in the palm of his hand. Did Ronnie tell him she had it here? Or was he simply going by predictions? It didn't matter, he would get it. But maybe she could give him one and not the other. He would find his mask.

Maybe she could continue to hide the medicine.

"Who told you I had it?" she asked him, trying to pull her arm free from his grasp.

"I am in no mood for questions right now, Camille. You will give me my mask. I know it is here. And if it is not in my hands in thirty seconds, I will make you suffer."

She stared into his eyes as he spoke, and noticed that they no longer held the very temporary shine that had been there when the oxycodone had first kicked in. They were dull, just as she'd always known them to be because of his pain, and hollow. The pills effects were going extremely fast. And because she felt she had to do _something_, she tried to stall him. Maybe she could get away and find help. Bane wasn't as much of a threat when there was no medication running through him. His pain was too intense.

"I don't have it. It's not here. Arkham would never let me take it."

"I do not appreciate lying."

"It's back at the asylum. Take my car and retrieve it yourself."

He was still, and Camille thought for a moment that he was considering it. But when the arm around her arm starting to tighten, she knew the only thing he was considering now was how he would hurt her.

"Do you want to know why the Batman was absent for so long after I began the revolution?" he asked her quietly, staring hard into her eyes and forcing her to stay put. "It wasn't that he left you. No, he would never have left his precious city to someone like me. And it wasn't that he was afraid." Bane pulled her body close to him, and squeezed her arm so tight that she tried to pry his hand away. "Do you want to know what happened to your Dark Knight?" he murmured. "I _broke_ him. I fractured his spine, and then I sent him away to hell, and left him there to rot. It took months for him to heal before he returned to save you. And I did all that to him just to get him out of the way. What do you think I will do to you if you continue to stand in the way of me getting what I need to survive?"

Camille swallowed hard, and tried not to imagine Bane hurting the Batman so badly, tried not to think of the excruciating pain that had come with his injury. Could Bane do something worse to her? Was there anything worse than someone breaking your back?

Of course there was. She thought of so many different things.

_If you scream, I will break your jaw. _

That threat no longer seemed so horrible.

"I know you genuinely tried to help me," Bane continued. "And I am grateful for that. But I will not succumb to that pain again."

They stared at each other for a few moments, until Camille finally broke. He would find his things one way or another. And she didn't want to be the one to suffer. Her city would probably be disappointed in her that she had not tried hard enough.

It was a good thing she didn't care for Gotham all that much.

Knowing he'd won, Bane let her arm go and followed her into the small kitchen.

And there it was. Right on the dining table waiting for him. He rushed over to it, the pain steadily returning and making him weak. He was a desperate man now. Bane checked the small hatches in the back. Snarling at her now, he hissed, "Where is the medicine?"

She pointed to the fridge, and watched as he hurried over and found what he'd been wishing for since the first day he woke up in Gotham General. It took him not two seconds before everything was in place, and he was clicking the last latch around his head. Camille heard a slight hiss, what she assumed was the gas finally pumping through the mask and into his body.

Bane's entire body jolted as he held the mask against his face for dear life, his eyes closed, as his precious medicine began to flow through him once again.

Camille blinked as a thought came to her mind. Slowly and as quietly as she could, she slipped her feet out of her heels. Her door was so close.

_If you flee from me, I will burn your home down with everyone inside it. _

She could make it. She could run right into the hall, pull the fire alarm, and become lost in a sea of frantic people. Bane couldn't possibly kill anyone if everyone was already gone, and maybe his medicine would take a few minutes to finally kick in. The police and firemen would come, and take him down. She would be safe, and Bane would be locked away again. She decided, and then she acted.

Camille bolted to the front door. She was fast. She would make it. She felt a thrill when her palm connected with the door handle. She would be free. Please let her be lucky.

She cried out in fear and pain as her body was suddenly shoved with a terribly heavy force against her still closed front door. She moaned as she was held there, her entire body now aching from the impact. Roughly, she was turned around, and a large hand wrapped around her throat while the other covered her mouth to hide her screams.

There he was. Camille's eyes widened as she stared into the face Gotham knew all too well. The face that had frightened them, imprisoned them, the face that had taken the Batman from them forever. He looked completely different, yet she knew this face as well. Gone was her suffering patient who could barely walk because of his agony.

Standing before her now, holding her hostage and hurting her, was Gotham's liberator.

Squeezing her neck and staring at her with his now bright green eyes, was _Bane_.

His mask hissed almost violently. And when he spoke, his voice was different, almost mechanical, almost amplified.

Camille held her breath as she grasped at the hands that restrained her, and found that she was unable to look away from the now psychical force that had been her number one patient.

"Why do you try to run from me?" He tilted his head to the side, and looked at her almost cheerfully, taunting her, his voice rising from what she could only assume was happiness. "You still have so many other uses to me, pretty _Camille_."

She could tell he was smirking at her. She knew his face before he'd hooked the infamous mask back onto his head. She'd looked at him multiple times a week back at the asylum. She knew his expressions without being able to see them.

But before he could do anything else with her, the sound she dreaded the most came alive throughout the room. Right behind her, as Bane held her against the door with his body, was a knock.

And then she heard the voice.

"Camille, baby, you in there? Answer the door please. I'm freezing."

Camille squealed softly against Bane's hand as the mercenary frowned.

_Jackson._ Jackson was knocking on her door.

_If you alert anyone, I will kill them, and it will be your fault._

Bane looked back at her, and knew exactly by her reaction alone who was interrupting them. He brought the mouthpiece of his mask right to her ear, and murmured very softly to her.

"What terrible timing your ex-husband has, Dr. Lane."

**TBC**

**A/N: I cannot even begin to explain to you all how horrible it was to be away from this story. I missed my Camille and Bane terribly, and of course all my wonderful reviewers. But now, I am back. And I will NOT be leaving for that long ever again. You can definitely count on me to update frequently. Especially now that things are heating up. And don't worry, Camille will not turn into some helpless victim who cries all the time. Camille and Bane have a different relationship with each other than they do with anyone else. And I love her too much to turn her into some submissive crybaby who just lies back and takes Bane's rough ways. Thank you for waiting, and sticking it out with me, my darlings! Kisses to you all. **


	12. Dark Star

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 12**

**Dark Star**

"_Burning, out in the distance you're falling, starting to fade. Light is condemned to be tied down by gravity close to the end. Do you still remember? Before the weight that pulled you under, dared you to rise." – Tarja Turunen_

"Camille…" Jackson Lane groaned against the door and tapped on the wood. "Wake up. I know you're a light sleeper. Open the door. Your landlord doesn't seem to heat the hallways. Stupid apartment…"

Camille stared at Bane desperately, grasping his hands that held her throat and covered her mouth, pleading him with her eyes, panicking that he might bring harm to the man right outside her front door. Her breathing was heavy now against his palm, her anxiety spiking that he could almost feel it himself through her skin. Never had he seen her this way. Bane had been under the impression that their divorce was just something that was agreed upon, but knew that the effects of the separation had caused her to turn to depression medication for whatever reason. Divorce was rarely an easy thing for women.

But seeing her this way now, desperate and worried beyond belief that she had lost all little color that had been in her face, Bane knew that he had been greatly misled.

Camille still very much loved her ex-husband. And with that knowledge, she had just given him the perfect leverage.

His hands felt her swallow. She took a few more panicked breaths before softly muttering against his palm. Her voice was muffled and her words indecipherable. Deciding to give her a chance, Bane quietly moved them away from the door and further into her apartment, all the while keeping his grips on her neck and mouth. Her panic seemed to have travelled all the way down to her bare feet. She stumbled, then gagged softly when Bane caught her weight and righted her by the grip on her throat.

For a woman who gave off the impression of being so cool, composed, and professional, she was oddly very clumsy.

Bane threatened her with his eyes to stay quiet before removing the hand from her mouth.

"Please don't hurt him. _Please,_" she pleaded, holding onto his forearms so tightly that her long, rounded nails began to dig into his skin. "I can make him go away. I'll do anything you want. Just please don't hurt him."

Bane drew his brows together as he stared at her, his mask hissing as he drew breaths. How very strange, he mused. But he'd been right, the very first time he saw her prescription bottle. Her ex-husband was the cause for them. Just as he'd been right when he'd mentioned to her during session one day that Lane was not an Italian last name. She couldn't even rid this man's name from her identity.

Jackson continued to knock on the door and call for Camille. Camille couldn't decide whether to look at Bane, or to the direction of the voice begging her to let him inside. Bane decided to end her suffering, and gave her direction.

He turned her head and brought her ear closer to his mouth. Until the mouthpiece of his mask was right against her skin, pressing hard and digging so she could even hear the steady flow of the gas being pumped into his body, he spoke, his voice low and powerful like thunder.

Bane was angry now. And he didn't really even understand why.

"Tell him calmly to leave," he muttered against her ear, pressing his mask against her even harder. "If you don't, and he finds me here, you will then truly understand how I feel, _Doctor_. I will break ever single _bone_ in his body."

Camille cringed. Not from the pain he was causing her from digging the hard, sharp tubes of his mask into her skin, but from his words. She remembered those words. She'd told him something a little similar before, during the session where she'd had to regrettably inform him of Talia al Ghul's death.

_She broke every bone in her body_.

Psychiatrists always wanted to truly understand their patients. Didn't they? If she screwed up and Bane was found, Jackson would die the same way Talia had. And she would know exactly what Bane himself was going through now.

She didn't know if she was strong enough to endure it.

She nodded quickly, then stumbled again when she was released, rubbing the skin on the side of her face when his mask had prodded against her. Trying to regain some composure, she scurried up to the door and peaked through the peephole.

She felt the all too familiar ache in her chest when she glanced at Jackson. And she wished every night while falling asleep that he wouldn't have that effect on her anymore. But seeing him now was almost like a relief. Something familiar, something she'd once called her own. Jackson was bundled up in a big dark blue coat, what she knew was his 'going out' coat. The one he always wore when the temperatures dropped to expensive functions, preferably something to do with his family's gallery. His face was pure New England, all sharp angles and smooth lines. His long, shoulder length brown hair had been pulled back into a sleek ponytail, a look she'd always loved, especially when she would get to untie that lovely hair at night when they'd once shared a bed. His sharp cheeks were slightly red from the cold outside, and his equally brown eyes tired and a little glassy.

She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to go away forever.

She wanted him to save her.

Calmly, she unlocked the door and opened it, deliberately keeping the chain locked in place. Jackson had a bad habit of waltzing into her home without an invitation at times.

"Jackson," she said, breathing his name almost like a prayer.

He gave her that smile, the one that could charm Hitler, and swayed on his feet as he slurred his words. "Hey, cupcake, didn't you hear me knocking? Let me in."

She wanted to. God, she wanted to. "Have you been drinking? It's almost two in the morning."

"Is it? I lost track of the time." He went to pull his sleeve upward, almost as if he were going to check his watch, but couldn't seem to manage it. "I was at this thing. I had a few glasses of wine. You think you can let me in, sweetheart? I just want to go to…" He stopped, then hiccupped. "Go to sleep. My feet hurt."

"You can't sleep here."

He laughed. "You're so cute. Unchain the door, I can't figure that shit out right now."

"I mean it. You can't sleep here, Jackson."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed at her, leaning against the wall and sniffing. "I seem to recall… you saying the exact opposite last year during that whole mess with what's his name with the mask. You sure wanted me to sleep here back then."

Camille was suddenly able to sense Bane in the room with her. She stared at Jackson, cursing him for saying something like that within earshot of another person, someone who didn't know how she suffered with her wanting. She thought she couldn't feel more helpless and humiliated. How wrong she was. "You need to leave," she replied sternly, annoyed at distant memories being brought to attention.

"You don't want me to leave, honey. I know you don't. And you know how I always loved the way you look right out of bed." Jackson tried pushing the door, forgetting that it was still chained and hiccupping again. "I'll take you up on that offer now. You look delicious with your hair all tousled like that."

Was it possible to love someone, and utterly hate them at the same time? "Go home. Take a cab."

"Hey, are you still a thirty-two C cup?" He reached through the opening in the door and touched the front of her dress. He pouted when she slapped his hand away. "You know I can make you feel good. Just like old times."

"You're drunk."

"I want you, Camille."

She frowned. How many times had she wished he'd say those things to her? How many times had she wished for him to come back and save her again? Not from her family this time, but from herself. She'd always needed him to save her. How long had she been feeling alone and lost now? It had started way before Jackson had divorced her. She had felt confused and betrayed since the first night he hadn't come home when they'd been married, since packing up her things because _she_ had been the one who had to leave the home they'd shared. She wanted the confusion and the loneliness and the misdirection to go away, and it killed her inside to feel that only this man right now, the man humiliating her in front of Bane and making her pitiful actions a reality, could chase away all those horrible feelings.

Camille looked at her ex-husband, and wondered if he sensed if anything was wrong, if he would somehow know that she was in need of help. They'd been married for three years. That was enough time to know a person, wasn't it? She willed him to understand that something wasn't right. Willed for him to know her.

_Please save me_.

Suddenly, his cell within his pocket beeped to life. He drunkenly grasped at it, fumbled with the buttons, and answered.

"Yeah? Who? Oh. _Oh_," he murmured, and smirked.

Camille knew that smirk, and felt her heart explode within her chest.

Jackson turned away from Camille, but was too drunk to realize that she could still hear him perfectly. He laughed at something. "Oh yeah? Good, I can be there in ten minutes. No, keep it on. See ya in a few, Portia." He clicked off his phone, dropped it, then smiled up at Camille as he bent to pick it up. "I gotta run. But I'll take a rain check, baby." He leaned in to kiss her, but bumped his head on the door. It apparently wasn't worth it after that. "Try not to miss me tonight. Love ya, sugar."

Jackson turned and waved as he sauntered off to the elevator. He winked at her as the doors closed, and then he was gone.

Camille studied the plain elevator for a moment, then impassively closed her door. She locked the handle and set the deadbolt, made sure the chain was still doing its job. After she ran out of little useless tasks, she fisted her hands and held them at her sides. She stared at the door. It was better than doing anything else. She didn't want to do anything else.

_I saved you. Why didn't you save me? _

Maybe she should cry. It's what the normal woman did, wasn't it? But, oddly enough, Camille had not cried in years. She was stronger than tears. She had to be. Or else she would certainly drown in her own. Tears were pointless for someone who wouldn't be able to stop.

She heard the mechanical sounds of Bane's mask in her very quiet apartment. And because she figured she had nothing else to lose, she turned to him, kept her eyes away from his. She stood in her apartment and felt like a displaced object. She'd always been the displaced object.

Bane took deep breaths, still on an almost high from reuniting with his mask and medicine, and stared at her. He could feel his strength returning to him. He could feel his body rejoicing. He could feel the energy burning through his being like fire. He was feeling like himself again.

And he was disgusted.

"That," he said smoothly, looking at her eyes that wouldn't dare venture his way. "Is the man you trade your freedom for? That is the life you beg me to spare? That_ boy_ who comes here seeking only selfish pleasure and a bed from you. That is who you decided to share a life with?"

Her hands flexed and unflexed, then she started to feel like a mannequin. "You don't understand," she answered quietly.

Bane gave a breathless, condescending laugh. "Of course I don't."

Her body had craved more anger before. And now that she was feeling it again, she held on. Her face formed into a scowl. "You _don't_."

"Isn't that the standard line, Camille? You don't understand," he repeated, scoffing at her words and treating her like the statistic she was. "What I do understand is that you are a hypocrite. Diagnosing and treating mental illness every day, to the _criminally insane, _and here you are. Chasing after your painter like a puppy."

"I don't chase him," she muttered.

"Don't you? He declines an invitation to your bed in the midst of a revolution, a _man _declines, and you are not chasing him?"

She didn't answer him. She could have pointed out many different things to him. Her exact feelings during his takeover when she thought she was going to die with the rest of the city, the fact that even though she wished Jackson would return to her, she'd never brought up the idea to him in person. Or she could have become his psychiatrist again, and mention the simple fact that even though he wasn't realizing it, Bane had most certainly been chasing Talia al Ghul, even going as far as to sacrifice his own life for her precious revenge scheme. Or maybe he did realize it, and was perfectly okay with that. But she stayed quiet, and let him continue to misunderstand her.

She only stood there, looking away, probably ignoring his words just as she ignored the truth of her ways. He hated what she had done to herself concerning the man she used to be married to. He was a firm believer in bettering yourself, in not allowing the shackles of your personal life keep you from moving forward. He had liberated an entire city so that they would know true justice, that they would understand rank and what was fair. That they would rise up, and do what truly needed to be done. Become warriors, and release the hold the system would have on them, the cage the world kept them in. The end result may have only been for Talia's satisfaction, but the liberation of the people of Gotham had been his idea, his belief.

Camille may not have been given the key to her shackles yet, but she had refused to try and break them. She had refused to rise up, and continued to allow the sharp metal of her bondage cut into her skin without a fight.

"I want to take a shower," she said suddenly. "I need to wash my hair. It's dirty."

She could tell he was about to refuse, probably worried that she might try to make another run for it or have something stashed away that she could use against him. But she knew she had nothing, and understood that now that he had his painkillers pumping through his body, she didn't stand a chance against him at all. What did he expect her to do? Whip out a pistol she stored in her small bathroom just in case she was ever held hostage in her own home?

She looked at him then, saw that he was watching her. He almost didn't look like her patient anymore. It was interesting how his mask could alter almost everything about him, even the way he held himself, almost like he knew he was physically perfect_. The man who broke the Bat_. But when she watched his eyes, the green eyes past the mask, she could see him there, and how she used to know him.

"I've already given you my life," she said, irritation heavy in her voice. "I'm not stupid. I know you'll use Jackson against me now. And whatever reasons you have for still needing me, I understand that you'll hurt him if I don't do what you ask. So I'm telling you now that I _will_ do what you ask, because I don't want anything bad to happen to him." She frowned then, and wondered how she ever got into this situation in the first place. She was supposed to have been done with her bad luck in life. She was supposed to have already filled that quota with twenty-seven years worth of suffering. But apparently, life had different plans for her. And none of them were good.

"I worked hard when you were in the asylum for you to trust me. You can," she told him.

Bane considered as he glanced over into the kitchen at the small clock hanging on the wall. The hours were going by, and he needed to make arrangements. He didn't want Camille knowing every little detail when he made some calls. And while he did believe her when she said he could trust her, he would still take precautions. Just in case.

"You may shower for fifteen minutes. I come in to get you myself if you go over."

"Fifteen minutes. You obviously aren't too aware of the species known as the female creature."

"Fifteen minutes," he repeated sternly. "Your time is already wasting. And you have so much hair to wash, Doctor. I suggest you get to it."

Accepting the time because she had no other choice, Camille turned away and headed for her bathroom. She softly closed the door.

Because he'd been so preoccupied with finding his mask before, Bane finally looked about her apartment once he heard the shower head turn on and the soft sound of water beating against the tub. It was a small place, only consisting of a living room, kitchen, and Camille's bedroom and bathroom, each room small and allowing just enough space for the necessary items. It seemed to have worked out well for her, considering she really only had those necessary items to fill her home with. The walls were a boring beige, her loveseat and matching recliner white leather, with a small glass coffee table nestled in the middle. He didn't spot a television set, something the standard American always seemed to own somewhere. Instead, he guessed she took care of entertainment while at home with the largest piece of furniture occupying her space, a very large and very full book shelf covering almost one entire wall.

Curious to know what his psychiatrist read during her free time, Bane sauntered over and skimmed the many shelves.

Camille seemed to enjoy reading a little bit of everything. He spotted many romance book spines, true crime novels, books on religion and spirituality, cop mysteries, classic titles, self-help, and of course, large psychology text books. He spotted one amongst the larger books, since they seemed to be categorized by genre and size, and noticed that it didn't quite seemed to fit with her other hard cover psychology titles. He pulled it out a little to look at the cover, then felt the urge to roll his eyes as he pushed it back in place.

Why someone would write – and ultimately buy – such a large book on makeup was beyond him. What was even more perplexing was the fact that it was almost just as large - and in some instances larger - as her other text books on mental illness.

He walked away from her reading material and went in search of her cell phone. He found it buried inside her purse. After dialing the number on the touch screen, he began making plans.

The storm had begun.

* * *

It amazed Camille that she was able to wash herself in the allowed time she'd been given, and annoyed her that the time had been so short in the first place. Of course all Bane had to do in the shower was wash his body. He didn't have to do important tasks such as washing irritatingly long curly hair and shaving legs that she had skipped the previous day. But she had done it, and she could be proud for it.

What she didn't like was that the shower, something that usually made her feel better after a hard time, had not helped how she was feeling at all.

What she needed to help her feel better was her Lexapro. And it wouldn't just help, Camille thought as she grabbed a navy blue towel from the rack to rub against her curly hair. It would _make_ her feel better. The little pill she would look at in her hand before swallowing it down her throat would force the darkness away, and bring a wonderful… nothingness. She could look at the tiny Lexapro before she ate it and see it as her knight in shining armor. The only thing that helped her and hadn't left her, because it couldn't leave her.

She suddenly understood perfectly why Bane had been so desperate to have his mask returned to him. If she couldn't have her knight in pill form, what would save her then?

Camille jumped and shrieked a little as Bane suddenly burst into the bathroom. She was thankful that she had covered most of her body with the towel by the time her minutes were apparently up. She frowned at him as she secured a corner in between her breasts.

Bane glanced at her as steam from her very hot shower ate the space in her little bathroom and fogged the mirror. The water must have been set to near boiling going by the redness of her skin. More black makeup had melted underneath her eyes, and her hair looked like a tangled black mess, already curling at the ends that seemed to reach down to her rear when wet. She held the towel against her chest with her forearms, fisting her hands underneath her chin and giving him a look that said he should go away.

She almost looked like a ghost. Haunted and lost.

He stepped back a little to let more steam exit the room. Camille then lifted an arm to brush back some wet strands of her hair that had fallen in front of her face. She was about to step forward and close the door again until her wrist was roughly grasped by his large hand, and she was yanked a little closer to him. She held the towel tighter against her chest with her other hand, and was just about to yell at him before she saw his eyes and where exactly they were looking. She held her breath and looked down at her forearm turned up for him to see.

And there they were. Her nasty little secrets. Her humiliating release. Her flesh colored little saviors.

Bane stared at the scars covering her forearm. Tiny little cuts that grouped together like friends, tearing her pale skin apart. There was no order or reason to their grouping. They were everywhere along her forearm, jagged lines that had once spilled her blood. He looked to her other arm that was pressed against her chest, and could spot a few peeking out on her other forearm as well.

And then he looked to her face, and saw the same glare that seemed to be reserved just for him tonight. She tried yanking her arm free from his grasp, but he held on, almost forcing her to acknowledge them, telling her that he had seen them now. He lifted his thumb from the hand that held her wrist and brushed it over the closest scar.

"How… cliché," he said to her.

That made her even more angry. "Another thing you don't understand."

He let her go then, and watched her curl into herself, something she'd been doing all night now. "I never noticed them before."

More hair had fallen in front of her face. She nodded over to the bathroom counter that was covered with hair and skin products, what he assumed were makeup tools, lotions, and bobby pins.

"The power of a good concealer is a mighty one," she murmured sadly.

Out of all the products she owned cluttering up her counter space, Bane knew exactly which one she used on her scars. The small baby blue tube was set apart from the rest of the clutter, singled out from the rest because of its job. He picked it up, heard her intake of breath as he held it. The directions said that the product was used mostly for burn victims. She seemed to splurge to cover her unwanted habit. The price was printed right on the tube.

"You spend quite a bit to hide yourself," he commented.

"I'm sorry I don't feel as comfortable with all my deformities as you do with yours."

His eyes suddenly snapped onto hers with heat in them. Not appreciating her snippiness concerning the matter, he decided to punish her. And did so by twisting the cap off and squeezing all her precious concealer down the sink. She stepped forward in haste to try and stop him, but his strength had made the concealer burst down the drain, flowing away from her, away and down the dirty pipes.

Bane looked at her angrily, and tossed the useless tube at her feet.

"Scars are not deformities if done by your own hand. You cut yourself, and now you are unhappy with the result, hiding them so no one else will know. But you should never hide who you are." He looked to her forearms again, at the tiny evidences of her unhappiness, and scowled. "That is who you are, Camille."

She didn't know what to say, and was tired of being naked and wet in front of him. And she was cold now, all the way to her bones. She looked away from him, and brushed passed him to her bedroom. Bane walked back into her living room once she slammed the door.

* * *

Minutes later, the door slowly opened and out she walked. She must have felt a little paranoid with him inside her home behind a closed door since she instantly looked for him while exiting her bedroom. She'd combed her already curly black hair, cleaned her face of the ruined makeup, and smelled of honey. On her body she'd thrown on a pair of black capri yoga pants and an emerald colored tank top. Her frown was still upon her red stained lips.

She found Bane standing in front of the fireplace she never used, glancing at one of the two pictures she kept up there. Apparently he was going to discover all the bad aspects of her life in one night. First Jackson, then her damaged skin, and now this.

Bane peered at the picture. It was nothing special, and pretty generic, but the faces were interesting. Especially since one face belonged to his doctor.

The picture was of a family of seven, and printed in black and white. The gruff and very tired looking man at one end he assumed to be Camille's father. There were four other males in the picture, all smiling and living what they thought was a carefree life. They grouped around their parents with happy, silly, boyish faces, making silly grins, a couple tongues sticking out. Acting out and carrying on like the young men they were. All had the same dark hair and Italian complexion that Camille had. In the center of the picture was the person the boys were hanging off of, and who the father was holding almost possessively. No doubt the star of the whole family picture. Camille's mother.

And Bane couldn't help but notice that she was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.

Camille's mother was dressed simply for the picture in a baby pink dress, one that was cut low in the front to show off generous breasts and tight around a body that didn't look like she'd given birth to five children. Her beauty didn't seem to need any adornment. With high, sharp cheekbones, pale skin and intelligent dark eyes, Camille's mother looked like an Italian goddess straight from a painting. Her smiling face was framed by a sharply cut Cleopatra bob of black hair that Camille had inherited. Bane could tell she had a certain presence about her, almost an aura that could draw the male species like zombies to flesh.

The six of them were huddled together like the seemingly happy family they were. And a little further off to the side, away from the rest, stood a younger Camille.

She didn't look that much different, Bane decided. He assumed she's been a late bloomer, since her body didn't look the way it did now. Her hair was still curly but much shorter, falling around her shoulders as she stood away from the family group, a very forced smile on her sunken face. The skin under her eyes was very dark. She looked hungry and worn out.

The rest of the family looked happy and loved. Camille looked lost and exhausted.

Bane glanced down at her once Camille came to stand next to him. Her eyes were glued to the picture, and almost wearing the same expression.

He had guessed that Camille's depression and self-mutilation had come from her divorce from the man she still loved. But after finding this picture of the family she'd grown up in, he wasn't sure that it was the only reason.

"They say a picture is worth a thousand words," she said quietly, no longer seeming to mind how close he was to her now. "It's true."

His mask hissed loudly before he spoke. "And what does this picture say?"

She tilted her head to the side a little, remembering the time the family here was trapped in, and feeling the sorrow of it. "It says… nothing." She lifted her hand, her arm clear of concealer with another person around her for the first time in years, and touched the edge of the frame with one long red fingernail. "And it says everything. It shows an illusion, something that never existed for me. And it also shows the truth." Camille lifted her finger, dragged it over her own fake smile in the picture, and frowned. "Happiness is an illusion and the future is a threat. That's what this picture would say. The others can see, but they can't see you. They never could." She looked at the face of her mother. "They can only hate you. You've given them everything, and they still hate you."

Camille snatched her hand away, almost as if the picture could bite her, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"You have your mask and your freedom. Why do you need me still?"

Bane looked down at her again slowly. He'd been prepared for questions. She was a psychiatrist, after all. She made her living off asking questions, hearing answers, and then speaking the true answers that people sometimes didn't want to hear. Or in the asylum's case, trying to discover the answers as to why people like him did what they did. And because he remembered all the hours of her asking him questions he would pick and choose whether to answer or not, he decided to turn the tables this time. He had his own questions now. And he would get his answers. They had a few hours to kill anyway.

"You once told me that if I worked with you, then you would do the same for me. I must admit, I am a curious man. I will trade you one answer for another."

She almost refused. She didn't want to talk about herself. She'd become a psychiatrist so she could deal with other people's problems instead of her own. She liked it that way. But she had to know why Bane still needed her. She knew it was something that would keep her up during the nights she would be his captive. So she agreed.

"Why did you cut yourself?" he asked, leaving the picture of Camille's family behind and lowering himself onto her white loveseat.

The question surprised her. It had never been asked before. Even after she'd met Jackson, showed him her arms when they were to be married, he never gave them much thought. He'd always told her that the past was the past, and that their time together was a new future. Nothing else would matter. But the past did matter. It would always matter.

At first she didn't know how to answer Bane's question. And then, she realized that she actually had a lot to say.

"When I was first hired at Arkham Asylum, the only patients I was ever given were what we called Level One's. They were really only inmates that were admitted there under Section 5150, which originally began in California but was later added to Gotham City's Welfare and Institutions Code. Those patients would be confined in Arkham and given psychiatric evaluation if they were deemed gravely disabled or a danger to themselves. I would talk to so many different kinds of people, and help them through a time bad enough that they felt the need to kill themselves, or at least try to. Before I knew it, I was the head of Level One. My success rate was at ninety-eight percent." She sighed softly, then turned her arm so she could see her scars.

"My ninety-eight percent came from nothing but my own understanding. You see, when someone self mutilates, most of the time it's only because they simply cannot take the emotional pain inside of them. Physical pain is… so much better." Camille glanced up at the picture of her family with darkened eyes, and absently scratched her forearms. "My mother craved attention. She hated all other women, because they were nothing but a threat to her. You can only imagine how she felt when her first born child ended up a girl. And then came my four brothers, her shining stars. After she was done having children, she started venturing out to find the attention of men she'd missed out on for years. My father went crazy trying to keep her in line, until nothing else mattered. And before I knew it, only just a teenager, I was singlehandedly taking care of my entire family."

Camille could remember the day they took that picture. Her mother holding her boys close. They were her precious babies. Her father holding the woman who only used him to take care of her financially. Her four brothers, practically unaware of everything that was happening around them, but knowing the whole time what their family had become. And Camille, she had been pushed to the side because her mother hadn't wanted the competition of another female. Not that she could ever compete with the Italian perfection that was her mother at the time.

"My mother refused to pick the boys up from school. I had to do that after my own classes, and then head off to work because I had to feed them something. My father would only pay the necessary bills, but didn't seem to care about new clothes for them, food, cleaning supplies, birthday parties that had to be thrown. I did all that. I would go to school, take care of my brothers, scrub the house clean, and go to work. My mother fooled around, spent our money on new clothes and lingerie, and yelled at me all the time. And… so did my brothers."

Bane wondered if she would cry. He listened, and let her tell her story, because he wasn't sure if it had ever been told before. But when she continued to stay the ever composed Camille, he knew no tears would come.

"They never respected me. They destroyed the house I slaved over every day. They would call me a bitch when I would tell them to pick up their dirty dishes. And they were too immature to understand everything I was doing for them. They became my children, because my mother wasn't there. It was the worst thing she ever did to me." Avoiding his eyes that watched her, she slowly lowered herself onto the floor and brought her knees up to her chest. "I was dying inside, I knew I was. I was choking on my own grief and didn't know how to make it go away. One day, I was doing the dishes and cut my finger on one of the steak knives. And it felt… so good. I was watching all of my sadness leak down my finger. I instantly took the knife into my room, and began cutting my wrists."

Bane imagined the scene and oddly found it interesting. He could see her now, on the floor just as she was, cutting away and smiling.

"The trick is," she continued, almost forgetting who she was talking to and relishing in her words, one corner of her lips lifted ever so slightly. "the emotional pain is so intense, so horrible, that when you finally see your blood flowing down your arm, you forget, and think, 'Oh wow, that's bad. Guess I have to take care of it'. And for a moment, nothing else matters while you clean your cuts. The blood is all of your suffering leaving you, giving you release. Saving you." She finally looked over at him on her couch, and wondered when exactly the doctor had become the patient. He stared back at her, and she didn't care what he thought. Finally, she didn't care. "I cut myself when I was a teenager because I had to. I needed the distraction. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to survive my own family. I keep that picture up there as a reminder of what I did survive, and to tell myself that life now can always be a lot worse. I could be back with them. My… my own family."

Bane looked at her and understood exactly why she'd chosen the profession she had. The term ignorance is bliss seemed appropriate. She didn't have to deal with herself if there were so many others counting on her to save them, help them figure things out. He once told her that she was dying inside. And she'd used the exact same words. The scarred flesh on her forearms was the evidence of her rotting. And once again, just as he'd once said, she'd tolerated all of it.

"You could have left," he commented, and felt the heat.

She scoffed angrily. "Of course you would say that. Look at you. You can survive anything. You're easily adaptable. Some of us aren't quite so strong. Some of us had responsibilities."

"Mothering your brothers and father was not your responsibility at all. You took that all on yourself. You let that woman manipulate you into doing her job."

Her hard glare suddenly softened into a frown at his words. She whispered, "I know."

The room was suddenly very quiet once more. The sky outside through the one small window in the kitchen was pitch black, barely a sprinkling of stars for two in the morning. Bane knew they should both go to sleep. But a deal was a deal.

"I had a doctor during the revolution," he began, waiting to continue when she looked his way again with her sad black eyes. "He would handle all of my prescriptions for me, made sure I never ran out of the medicine. Unfortunately, he is now dead. Shot right through the heart during the war with Gotham's Finest. So naturally, I need a new doctor. But I've had one for weeks now. And you will continue to do just fine."

"You need me to take care of you?" she asked, trying to make it sound like an insult.

"Yes," he said cheerfully, causing her to grimace. "But merely to assemble my analgesics when you are given the correct drugs. I assume you have those certain drugs written in your silly file on me." He sat back then, and never realized how the simple act of maneuvering your body without pain could be so taken for granted. He'd forgotten what it had been like before. "The canister's now will not last me much longer, especially since my body had been withdrawing for so long. You will keep me medicated, and I will allow your ex-husband to continue to live."

The weakness, the fear that Jackson would be hurt snuck out of her, and left her feeling ashamed. Wanting to make it go away, she asked another question, one that would distract her and keep her mind clear. "Why didn't you kill Ronnie?"

Bane rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders. "Were you expecting me to?"

"Yes."

He smiled underneath his mask. "I was planning on it. And I think he realized my intentions during the last moments of my escape. But in this instance, life will be much more cruel to him than I will. I would have simply broken his neck. It would have been very quick. But Ronnie Pierce… He will not survive the death of his son. That will kill him in a way that I cannot. I let him go so that he may watch his only child die."

Camille set her teeth. Had she expected anything less from him? She couldn't dwell on it. And accepted the fact that Bane would probably always be one step ahead of them all.

"Why did you marry him?" he asked, motioning to the second picture on top of her fireplace.

Camille looked up at it. It was of her and Jackson, just a few weeks after they'd been married. It was one of those standard couples picture, where one holds the camera out and the two lean in close to each other. Jackson had held the camera as they sat together on the new couch they'd purchased earlier in the day for their home. He faced the camera, a few spots of paint here and there on his face from an earlier project he'd been working on, acting goofy and smiling big and wide. Camille was staring at him, hearts in her eyes and a very content smile upon her lips.

She could remember how she'd felt then. Was it possible to only have about three years of happiness in life? She stared at her own face in the picture, feeling sad for the woman she used to be back then, because she hadn't known that the hearts in her eyes would soon break when the man they stared at would eventually leave her.

"He saved me from my family," she answered softly. "He took me away from them. I haven't seen my family in seven years because I ran off to marry him. I… was very grateful. He was the only person to ever love me."

Bane wondered how deep Mister Lane's love actually ran if he could only last just a few years with his doting bride. Then he pushed those thoughts aside, and decided to make Camille understand perfectly her new place in this world. "There is friction between you and your mother. How about your father?"

She looked over at him. "Excuse me?"

"Were you Daddy's little girl?"

Impassiveness turned quickly to disdain on her face. "I've never been anyone's little girl."

"Then you are in for an awakening, Darling Camille," he said cheerfully. "Because you are mine now."

He held her gaze as she sat there, letting her know who exactly was boss now. Her old life was over. He would use her until the day came when those uses were up. But for now, she was his.

Slowly, she rose from her spot on the floor, and walked away from him. Just as she was about to touch the door to her bedroom, he spoke again.

"Do not close the door."

Defeated, just as she'd always been, she did what she was told.

She hated him. She hated everything. Anger ran through her until she felt the actual heat from her hatred. She hated Gotham. She hated that she could no longer do what she wanted, could no longer be herself. She'd only wanted to be herself, with no one else getting in the way.

Camille looked to her full sized bed, at the cream colored sheets and blankets sitting there waiting for her. Usually she slept in nothing but her panties. The way her night clothes would twist and bunch on her body here and there only gave her irritation, and would be stripped from her body at some point in the night. It was what she did. She didn't sleep in clothes because that was who she was.

_Let me be myself_.

Her eyes turned grim as she glanced behind her, saw Bane settling on her couch for sleep only a few feet away. And once again, she didn't care. She would be herself, if only for one more night. She felt she would go crazy if she didn't allow herself that one last shred of familiarity.

Slowly, she slid her capri pants down and off her legs. Next came her tank top, her scarred arms lifting above herself to remove it along with her bra. She stood there in her bedroom, wearing nothing but her panties, and felt the slightest hint of power. She would sleep like this because it was what _she_ wanted. She would rest practically naked tonight with Bane just outside her door because she needed that one sliver of comfort.

Bane watched her as she undressed herself. The only clothing she'd left on her body was a small pair of red panties. He could spot the tiniest hint of toned muscle along her bare back before her very long black curls covered her skin, running all the way down to the small of her back. Her underwear fit well long the feminine curvature of her hips and backside, leading down to very pale legs.

He wasn't a man to simply look away when the image was right before him, when there was no modesty involved for the moment. Camille knew he was right outside her door. And if she was going to undress herself, knowing he was watching her, then it was her problem if she didn't want him to look. And in the end, he was only a man. And Camille had a lovely, womanly body.

She took care to make sure nothing else would be seen as she climbed underneath her covers. She turned off the lamp at her bedside, and snuggled into her sheets, knowing she would probably never sleep here again. She closed her eyes when the rest of the lights went off in her apartment, and realized she'd forgotten to take her Lexapro.

She was suddenly too tired to care.

The picture of her and her family came to her mind then. She thought of the young girl she'd once been, and the sad look she wore every time she watched the sun die in the sky. Did she know that she'd been dying inside? Did she understand even back then that anything beautiful could not last long on this earth? Or was she simply too afraid to go back inside her childhood home, where her mother would be waiting for her with her quick temper and accusations?

Camille forced her family from her mind, and decided that it was better to belong to Bane than to belong to her mother again.

And still, no one would save her.

**TBC**

**A/N: A present in the form of a very long Bane/Camille centric chapter for all my lovely reviewers. I hope you enjoyed it. One of my reviewers asked me what 115 was, the title of the previous chapter. All of my chapters are song titles, and the quote I list underneath is a lyric from that song. 115 is a great song from the game Call of Duty. Also, I was asked who the girl is from the image for this story. It's actually me up there. I didn't have a model when I was creating an image for Mercenary, and decided to just use myself so I could get the exact pose I wanted. I hope you all enjoyed all the Camille backstory. I know some of you were waiting for it. Thank you for all the reviews, my loves. **


	13. Higher Than Hope

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 13**

**Higher Than Hope**

"_Red sun rising, drown without inhaling. Within the dark holds hard." – Nightwish_

_The sound of an opening door had Camille frantically wiping up the bathroom tile, trying to sop up the red blotches here and there with toilet paper, and then tossing the pile into the toilet to be flushed and forgotten. She cradled her left arm against her chest, trying to keep the other wad of toilet paper against the newest damage to her skin as she cleaned up the evidence. _

_No one was supposed to be home. Her brothers wouldn't be out of school for another hour, her father was at work on site, and her mother had been gone for three days now. And with the stress of knowing there was nothing in their small house to feed her brothers, knowing she had to come up with some kind of money to get her youngest brother a new pair of shoes, and her ten hour work day tomorrow at the skin care store because it was almost Valentine's Day, she needed something to take the edge off. _

_Only one thing helped her nowadays. _

_And because she had an hour to kill before school was out, she had sadly brought her trusty steak knife into the bathroom with her and set it against her flesh. _

_It was supposed to have been her last time. But wasn't every time her last time? Camille couldn't remember anymore as she stared at the shiny silver of the knife, almost hearing a voice telling her that it would make everything go away for her, and believing that voice in the end. Every single time. _

_Her newest cut had bled a lot more than what she'd preferred. Not so much to the point where she'd feel weak and sloppy because of the loss, but also more than just the average and familiar trickle that would run down her arm. This newest mark on her skin had been decided to go closer to the inside of her elbow, right next to the lovely blue vein that travelled down her forearm. And once it had been done, Camille sighed deeply and smiled lazily, and forgot about her troubles, forgot about money, forgot about food. Forgot that she hadn't eaten something in two days because there were other mouths to feed before her own. There was a cut and a mess on the floor to worry about now. _

_But now someone was home. And Camille knew exactly who it was. _

_She hurriedly cleaned her arm and wrapped it, then rushed to put her navy sweater on to hide the bandages. Their home only had one bathroom, and Camille knew her mother would want in right away so she could check her hair. _

_Taking a deep breath before she entered the battle field, Camille opened the door and stepped out._

"_Mother?" _

_She was greeted with the usual glare. Her mother stood by the front door, wearing a dress that hugged her attractive body close, heels high to lengthen her already long legs, and short bob of black hair styled perfectly. "What the hell are you doing home? Shouldn't you be at school?" _

"_School ended an hour ago for me," Camille muttered, not caring that she had to tell her mother the family schedule every time she came home, and instead eyeing the stranger that stood behind her. In Camille's home without her permission. _

_He was an older man, Camille could tell. Or at least older for her mother. A little on the shorter side, hair white and face beginning to wither. He was impeccably dressed in a dark brown suit, one that screamed of money and power. And Camille knew exactly who he was. His face was plastered on the evening news every day. _

_It wasn't rare for her mother to show up with men who weren't her husband while Camille's father wasn't home. It was everyday life, and Camille was always told to be quiet about it. But the man standing inside her home now was something new. Why her mother would bring home who all of Gotham knew as Carmine Falcone was a mystery, and at the same time it wasn't. She knew of his reputation. She knew he was a man who didn't joke around. Camille knew he was a very, very bad man. _

"_Who's this?" Camille asked softly, and instantly regretted it. Questions could bury her when it concerned this woman. _

_Her mother almost looked like she had murder on the brain. "This is my house, Camille. I don't have to answer to you. Go to your room. Now." _

"_Daddy will be home soon." _

_The glare deepened into something even nastier. "I don't give a fuck about him! I do what I want. Now get out of my sight." _

_Camille eyed the mob boss again before doing as she was told. And just as soon as she closed her bedroom door, it was instantly pulled open and her mother barreled in. She went straight to her closet and pulled out a black dress. "I told you not to take my things." _

"_That's my dress, Mother." _

"_And I told you not to lie. No man out there wants a liar. Which means no man will want you." _

_Camille could have laughed at her. Instead, she felt the fear. "You can have it." _

"_And do something around this house. You think I want you living here in my home for free? Do the dishes, for God's sake. And do not tell your father I had company. You know I have high blood pressure. He'll only put me in the hospital again." _

"_Yes, Mother." _

_Grasping Camille's dress in her hand, her mother slammed her door. _

_Her room suddenly felt too hot. She needed to leave. She couldn't breathe. She didn't want to be here when her mother was home. Glancing at the clock, Camille decided to leave now to pick her brothers up from school because their own mother had no interest in doing the job herself. She also needed to pick up some kind of dinner for them on the way home. Something that would have to be small, and very cheap. _

_She had to pass her mother's bedroom to get to the front door. She tried to be as quiet as possible. She didn't want to make her mad. She didn't like when she would get yelled at, didn't like when a hand would suddenly connect with her cheek. _

"_Where are you going?" _

_Camille stopped in her tracks and almost felt the need to puke. Her hands started to shake as they always did when her mother would snip at her. Even still at sixteen years old, she was desperately intimidated by the woman who'd given birth to her. "I have to pick the kids up from school." _

_Camille turned and saw her mother standing in her doorway in a gold silk robe. Carmine Falcone was sitting on her bed, the bed that was shared with her father. Camille tried to avoid his staring gaze, knowing that would only upset her mother even more. She didn't like when her men would look at Camille. But she was relieved when her mother stood in front of him, keeping her out of sight. All eyes always had to be on her, and her alone. _

"_Remember what I said," she told Camille, her voice taking on that tone that would make her shiver inside. "Keep quiet about this. You know my health can't take another fight with your father. You know that, don't you, Camille?" _

_She looked at her mother, at the person who was supposed to love you no matter what, but to Camille would always be the person who controlled you, molded you into what they wanted you to be. She felt the manipulation, felt that control squeezing hard around her neck. _

_And simply allowed it to happen._

"_I know, Mother. I won't say anything." _

_She smiled. "Good girl. You've always been my good girl, haven't you?" _

_Absently, Camille nodded. _

_With one last smirk, the thought of her own children waiting for her nonexistent, her mother stepped away from the door and further into her bedroom wearing nothing under her robe except her bare skin. But something was different now. The body on the bed was no longer Gotham City's number one mob boss. _

_Camille frowned when she saw that it was Bane now sitting on her mother's bed. _

* * *

Her eyes snapped open into the dark, the dream confusing and annoying her at the same time. For a moment, she forgot where she was, and simply stared into nothing. Her thoughts gathered, and Camille remembered that she was in her own home, away from her dream, and in her own bed.

She discovered herself lying on her stomach, her hands resting near each side of her head, the covers beginning right at the start of her hips. She shivered some as her bare back felt the steady air of the ceiling fan above her, and sighed deeply. When her bathroom light was suddenly turned on, Camille felt the first stings of fear as she felt a large shadow loom over her.

"Time to wake up, Dr. Lane."

Camille closed her eyes again as everything came flooding back to her. Ronnie's call, his betrayal, her kidnapping, Jackson's life being threatened, and Camille handing her own life over to her patient to keep her ex-husband safe.

Slowly, Camille turned as she held the blanket against her chest to keep herself covered. She may have decided to do things her own way and sleep the way she normally slept for her last night in her home, before she was taken away. But now that night was over, and Camille would not let Bane see anything else. Still very sleepy, she looked to the clock and saw that it was five in the morning. Barely three hours of sleep.

She looked over at Bane and saw that he'd been looking at her bare back. It unnerved her, but not because she thought he would be one for rape. She already knew it was something he didn't stoop to, and because he told her he'd never had to lower himself to such an act in the first place. What unnerved her was that she could remember herself doing the exact same thing to him a while back, watching him walk around in his cell in nothing but the same pair of gray scrub pants he still wore on his legs.

"Where are we going?" she asked sleepily.

"That is none of your concern. You are only to do as you're told," he said to her, and calmly set a crumbled piece of paper onto the bed next to her. "Your mail."

Eyeing it, she knew exactly what it was and what it would say. Camille just stared at it as she wrapped her blanket around her body.

"You seem to be in a bit of trouble with the people of Gotham."

"The people of Gotham don't tell me what to do."

Bane glanced back down at the paper. He'd seen the small white strip when he rose a little earlier before he'd woken Camille, just resting there by the front door. Someone had obviously come to visit Camille while they'd been sleeping, someone who didn't like very much that Bane was alive, and someone, going by Camille's reaction, who had been giving her these little love notes for some time now. Someone who would be interested to know that Bane had escaped, and taken the very person they wanted to kill him.

"How long have you been receiving these notes?" he asked her.

Camille shrugged and looked away from him, letting her hair fall in front of her face, and staring at the marks along her forearms. She glanced at one in particular, the one she'd given herself in her dream. Or memory. Whatever it was that was going on with her now. "I've gotten a few. They all say pretty much the same thing. Whoever it is knows I had the most access to you while in the asylum."

He remembered the words written in the note. "They have threatened your life so that you will end mine."

She sighed in annoyance and rolled her eyes. "And?"

"And you have not fulfilled their wishes. Whoever is harassing you possesses the knowledge of your schedule, your work, and your home. They are very close, and can easily carry out their threats against you."

She looked to him then, saw him standing by the side of her bed wearing the same black wife beater that Ronnie had given him and the same gray pants. His mask still hissed softly as he was medicated, making his body better, making him able to function again. Camille thought it almost funny how she'd ignored those threats only to be kidnapped by the very man who was wanted dead. And while she knew that his curiosity about the notes didn't come from concern for her, she still wondered why it mattered at all. "Look…" she began, and suddenly hated the fact that she was only wearing panties with a flimsy blanket around her body. "You were my patient. _You_, of all people. And I work at an insane asylum. I wouldn't have taken the job if I wasn't fully aware of the difficulties that came with it. I knew there were going to be problems the minute I took your case. So…" She glanced down at the paper with anger now, a sadness she couldn't yet explain. She picked it up, crumbled it, and tossed it at his chest. "Who the _hell _cares what they have to say? It doesn't matter anymore now, does it?"

Bane stared at her, saw the way her mouth set in the scowl for him, saw her black eyes darken. And because he didn't have time for her anger now, he ignored her words and the note, and decided that it was time to leave. "Get dressed and pack your things."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left her bedroom. She continued to sit on her bed, her hands holding her covers firmly in place, and watched as he reached for her cell phone and began dialing to call whoever he needed to call.

Maybe the police would find her. Maybe she could find an opportunity to escape and get Jackson to safety as quickly as she could. Maybe she could just convince Bane to kill her, and she wouldn't have to go through any of this.

Once again, she found herself indifferent to everything. And knew she hadn't felt this way in a very long time.

Camille got out of bed and closed her door for privacy, even though Bane had told her not to. She reached for her Lexapro sitting on her dresser and stared at it.

Her indifference could be cured so easily. With one little pill she could feel like herself again, before Bane had entered her life. With a swallow she could come up with reasonable options for herself, maybe even figure out a way to subdue Bane, since she would be the one to handle all of his medications now. With a Lexapro sliding down her throat, she could think and then forget.

But her indifference, and something else deep within her chest, had won. And Camille softly set the pill bottle back onto her dresser, and walked away to change and pack.

* * *

Camille exited her bedroom a few minutes later, dressed and holding onto a very large duffle bag that she had absently started stuffing with various items of her clothing, and all the toiletries she thought she would need. She couldn't remember thinking too much into what she should bring with her. She'd only stood in front of her closet and threw whatever she could reach into the bag, and ultimately tossed in her Lexapro as well. The toiletries had been given slightly more thought. She obviously couldn't leave without bringing along such items as her toothbrush, face wash, shampoo and conditioner, and a box of tampons. And in the end, her small makeup bag with all the lipsticks she owned ended up in there too.

She would give Bane her life to save Jackson's, but she would not give him her identity.

Bane ended his conversation with whoever he'd been talking to, and raised a brow as he looked her over.

She was dressed simply in a pair of black leggings and matching black tank top. On her feet she'd put on a pair of Steve Madden boots, and to keep warm in the cold a black leather jacket had been carelessly put on for protection against the icy sting. Her curls looked as if nothing more than a quick tousle had been done to them, and more of that black makeup had been applied on her eyes. She'd painted her pouty mouth the color of plums.

"My toothbrush was wet," she said, standing almost awkwardly before him and a confounded look on her face.

"I know. I'm afraid I needed to borrow it."

"That's disgusting."

He smiled under his mask. The act of brushing his teeth had been incredibly painful for his body, but it was a necessity that couldn't be ignored. "I'm certain you will live. Come now. The police will discover my absence soon enough."

Camille drew her brows together as Bane reached for her bag and swung it behind his large shoulder. Another one of the many mysteries of her patient. A mass murdering kidnapper one minute, and a gentleman the very next. She accepted the fact that she would never be able to pin him down mentally. She didn't think she had the strength for it anymore.

Bane slid her cell phone into the pocket of his regulation scrub pants and took her elbow. Camille glanced back at her home for what she figured would be the last time before he pulled her away.

Thankfully, no one had been lingering out in the hallways so early in the morning. Bane didn't seem to care about the very few security cameras set up in various corners anymore. Very shortly, the other guards at the asylum would discover him missing, and the race would be on. The police department would not rest until they found him this time. He was too much of a threat to Gotham now. They would try their hardest to find him in this vast city, and once they did, it wouldn't matter if he was brought in dead or alive.

But in the good news department, Camille thought as she was yanked outside into the cool air, was the fact that she too would be seen on those security tapes. The police would put two and two together, and discover her missing as they investigated his escape further. And quite possibly, that could help them find Bane quicker and take her away from him.

Once before, Bane, the cause of misery, had liberated her city from the corrupt hands of the powerful with the intention of letting them burn in the end. And now he was free. What would happen to Gotham now? What were they all in store for now that the very city he'd wanted to destroy had completely turned against him and punished him? Hurt him?

Before, his actions were from nothing but a twisted revenge scheme, revenge that hadn't even been for him in the first place. Now, he most definitely had his own bone to pick with this city. He would not be distracted from his own revenge by the petty and pitiful laws of simple men.

Camille grew confused as they passed her car. Bane kept to the shadows, pulling her along until he slipped them into a nearby alley. A simple dark blue car sat there, tiny bits of cold frost sliding down the windshield from the wet night before. She shivered as Bane pushed her against the alley wall, set down her bag, and went to work.

She knew it was useless to run from him. Last night had proved that. He was much faster and stronger than her, and to try and make a break for it would only result in punishment for her later. Punishment in the form of Jackson's dead and broken body he'd promised her if she were try to escape him. So Camille just stood there as Bane worked the car locks to open, shivering against the cold wind of the very dark, early morning.

Soon she heard the soft_ thump_ of the locks releasing and asked, "Why are you stealing a car?"

"The police will look into you once they are informed of my escape. If your car was to be missing they would run your plates, and be given a trail. I cannot have trails. Not right now."

Camille gave him an unsettled frown when he casually opened the passenger door for her, then slammed it shut once she hopped inside. Tossing her bag into the back, Bane took his own seat and began the common criminal tactic of hotwiring the car.

Some acts just never went out of style.

* * *

"Your soul is tied to that man."

Bane's deep voice ended the fight she was having with herself to stay awake. As they drove calmly and smoothly through the city, she'd felt her head drooping every now and then. She hated it, but couldn't seem to stop it. Three hours was simply not enough for her body. She'd felt the intense exhaustion work could bring once before when she'd had a whole family depending on her to keep some kind of order in their lives. And she'd trained her body hard after she'd left them to never feel that way again. She was used to feeling rested.

"What?" she asked groggily, the task of hoping someone would see Bane driving a car down the street long forgotten when she'd realized that he'd chosen a car with illegally tinted windows.

"Your ex-husband. Mister Jackson Lane, the painter. Your soul is unhealthily tied to him, even long after your marriage had ended."

Camille kept her gaze away from him, focused on the city rushing past them through the still frosty window. "I don't know what a soul tie is. And I don't care to know about any of your strange League of Shadows euphemisms."

"I would wager that you would care very much about what I had to say if we were in session," he said, a little bit of mockery in his voice.

She turned her head further away from him as the deep, uncontrolled frown spread across her face. She didn't care enough right now to guess why she was suddenly feeling so sad. Something to think about later, she supposed. "We're not in session," she answered softly.

"Regardless of that," he continued, weaving the car through the slowly repairing city around them. It would always look same, Bane mused. Broken and corrupt. "When unconditional love is involved, a soul tie is formed during the first moments of copulation. Your heart has been given away, and now your body. The emotional and the physical have merged together, and your souls have become one. For some, the tie is hard to break. But you have not tried. And you continue to let yourself suffer." When she remained quiet, he continued, both of them knowing his words held truth. After last night and all she'd told him, she didn't have the drive for an argument. It would be useless now. "Your painter has long ago severed his tie to you. It is meaningless for you to still hold on to him the way you do."

He stopped at a red light and looked over at her, saw her staring at him. It wasn't the temper that had him holding her gaze, but the sheer unhappiness crowded with it in her black eyes.

The light turned green, and Camille once again turned away from him.

It didn't take that much longer to arrive at their destination. Bane had drove them to one of the quick-fix buildings that had been tossed up to replace those that had crumbled or been destroyed during the revolution. The temporary housing had been built to try and look welcoming and aesthetically pleasing to the eye, but in the end had just succumbed to the more rowdy word artists of Gotham. There were no outside security cameras, and Camille figured that that was the point of them being there to begin with. Bane knew he didn't have the resources right now to allow the slightest trail to the GPD, and had to be careful with his choices in location. Bane parked in the back just as the sun was beginning its peak to daylight, and guided her to a withered brown door above a flight of stairs. There was no need for knocking. The door was suddenly opened, and inside they went.

The inside was just as faded as the outside. Barely anything taking up space, hardly any signs of living at all. But the power was on, and a stranger locked them inside.

A dark skinned man locked the deadbolt on the door. His hair was thick and wavy, his smooth face almost free of wrinkle or blemish, indicating that he wasn't that much older than Camille. He was tall and thin, dressed simply in jeans and t-shirt. His eyes were dark, and held the maturity of someone much older, someone who knew a thing or two. When he looked at Camille, he raised a brow.

"You brought a friend," he said, his voice heavy with what she guessed a Middle Eastern accent.

"She is useful to me," Bane answered, and pulled Camille away and up a few steps to a very small, very dark bedroom. All that had been put in the windowless room was a creaky bed. He made Camille sit on it before reaching for the door.

"You're leaving me in here?"

"I have business to attend to, Dr. Lane. You'll stay in here until further notice."

He closed the door softly, leaving her to cross her arms over her chest and curse him once again.

"Bastard," she whispered.

* * *

Bane didn't know much about Ilyas, the man who had secured a location for him to regroup. He'd met him as a young man in Morocco a few years back, and had taken a liking to his wish for a more fulfilling life outside the physical labor his parents had put him through for their family business. Ilyas had left everything he knew to follow Bane and join his army of mercenaries. It was the rush of the job, the power over simple men, the freedom to do what he felt was right that had made him a very appreciative man when it came to his leader. And he had shown his loyalty to Bane when he'd agreed to die for the great cause.

But their great cause had failed, and Bane had been put away. Little did the city know, many of Bane's men had escaped the citywide arrests when the bomb had been secured, and Ilyas had been lucky enough to escape the police along with them. It took a lot of work and care to continue to stay hidden. But when Gotham had slowly begun to sink back to old ways, the less they had to hide.

Ilyas' main job before had been to recruit as many young, impressionable men as he could for the revolution. And after that had gone to hell, and he knew Bane had survived, Ilyas had gone back to work, making plans for when Bane would escape his captives. His leader could rise above anything, and Ilyas would make sure that Bane would return to order. As soon as Bane had contacted him late last night, Ilyas went to an unlisted storage facility where they'd saved backup items when they had first arrived in Gotham over a year ago. A lot had already been taken for the sake of the revolution, but a few things had been left, and replaced after the police reclaimed the city.

Ilyas slid a large box over to Bane as they stood in the very empty and unused apartment. He saw approval in his leader's face as he reached inside to pull out extra braces for his body, extra clothes that were his own, and his long brown leather jacket Ilyas had snatched from the street after the bomb had gone off.

He knew Bane appreciated the little things.

"You've done well," Bane commented as he wrapped his body in the extra braces made for him. They were much newer than his older ones had been, a darker brown in color and giving off the rich scent of leather. "How did you manage to avoid the police?"

"I snuck off to join a more… unfortunate crowd. I got a job and blended in. I knew you would live, and began the preparations for your return. Just as you told me to do."

"And the others?"

"They are slowly being reconnected as discreetly as possible. Again, just as you asked of us. We don't know for sure how many of us are left. If the number is not satisfactory to you, then we will simply recruit more. There are many tainted souls here still."

Bane nodded, and didn't mind the soft knock on the door. He cracked his wrist and readjusted it to fit inside the brace as Ilyas went to deal with the new guest. Bane knew he could trust his men, especially the ones who had remained hidden from the police department for the last year and a half.

He spun around once he heard a familiar voice, and couldn't help the grin that formed underneath his mask.

"Barsad. You survived."

Change to the younger man was noticeable. His hair had been dyed blonde to avoid being recognized by the authorities, and his body transformed to look much more physically fit than before. With money he'd had stashed away, Barsad had even changed the appearance of his teeth, learned to speak more American, and gotten rid of the scars of his bullet wounds from the war with cosmetic surgery. But because they'd spent so much time together, and because he'd always been his right-hand man, Bane knew exactly who he was just by the sleepy looking eyes alone.

"And I knew you would live," Barsad said to him with his own grin, wearing heavy clothes to keep warm from the returning cold. "We have money, and men gathering. Weapons will be easy to acquire. I'm hoping to start a new fire, sir."

Bane smiled and felt his body aligning perfectly once again with itself. Great work must be balanced by periods of rest. And in the midst of his, his men were still roaming about the city that had thought them all dead or put away. It was absurd that those who imposed the law, a law that changed as easily and as often as the weather, should believe that they had any jurisdiction or control over him.

"I already see the smoke, brother," Bane answered.

"What is the plan?"

Bane thought of certain events and people that had had a helping hand in the end of the revolution, and after it. He thought of certain faces that deceived themselves by thinking they were powerful, of his injuries and punishments. Of Talia, and her wish to restore balance to the world simply because her father had worked for the same thing. His heart ached when he thought of his love, and knew that Gotham had to be dissected of the unwanted. The removal of the damaged, the useless, and unproductive would be his goal. And sometimes those things went hand in hand when it came to the city's most prestigious and powerful. The diseased and dying vermin.

"Revenge first, then destruction," he answered.

* * *

A couple hours later, and her bag given to her by a man Bane called Ilyas, Camille sat on the floor of the small and chilly room with Bane's Arkham Asylum file in front of her. She'd grabbed it from her briefcase to be packed before she'd had to leave, and reorganized the papers more to her liking.

To keep Jackson safe and her own body from punishment, Camille's job would be to basically take care of Bane, keep him medicated and comfortable in his very complicated body. Bane knew Camille would know exactly how to achieve those goals since her little file on him was so extensive, thanks to the deceased Batman.

Camille flipped her fingers through the papers until she found the one she needed. During her many examinations of his mask and medicine, Camille had made a list of all the drugs that went in to keeping Bane's pain at a tolerable level. When she'd been in college, she'd rather enjoyed her classes on medication and medical terminology, and knew how each drug worked for him and kept him comfortable.

Bane's analgesics had consisted of a combination of Paracetamol, Dihydromorphine , non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs, and just the tiniest bit of cocaine, but not enough to where he would submit to the mental side effects of it. Bane's body was so much more different than the average person. His body could take combinations like this, even with a little cocaine involved, and be perfectly fine, physically and mentally. Camille also knew that his body would be given morphine intravenously when he would have to remove his mask for such acts as eating, brushing his teeth, and hydrating himself.

Just another addition to the job she would have to do herself.

Camille sighed on the floor and put her chin in her palm, her jacket long ago removed and her scars on her forearms almost smiling up at her from the absence of the concealer Bane had washed down the drain.

How long would he keep her? Until he found someone new and more capable? And if that was the case, what would become of her then? Would he kill her, or keep her for other tasks? She knew Bane himself didn't participate in the act of owning a sex slave or anything similar. He'd been too committed to Talia al Ghul. But did that mean his men held the same standards? And would he allow it?

She didn't know, and she hated it.

Another thing she hated was the fact that this room had no clock, and her cell phone was still with Bane. She knew Bane would dispose of it soon once the police discovered she'd been kidnapped and would trace the call logs. And the room had no window, so she couldn't tell the time by the weather. She only knew that she'd been stuck in here for hours, doing nothing but fiddling with Bane's papers and re-reading the material over and over for some entertainment. It felt like forever, and her stomach was steadily yelling at her in hunger.

Another feeling her body wasn't used to. The old pangs of hunger reminded her of her family, when she'd go days without food because her brothers needs had come before her own. Feeling the loneliness and the starved aches was steadily pulling her down the longer Bane kept her in here. And even though her Lexapro was within reach, she just couldn't bring herself to take one. She didn't want to, for whatever reason. And she didn't know why.

How could someone who treated the mentally sick day by day be so out of tune with her own mental issues?

Camille slowly closed the file, and sat on the floor to stare into the familiar darkness. More time passed with her doing nothing but sitting and trying not to think, trying not to let herself sink and feel like she was once again the exhausted young girl with horribly sad and sunken eyes, the girl with the ruined forearms from her own hand.

She jumped a little when the door was suddenly opened, and in walked Bane. Camille stared at him and saw that he looked more like the imposing figure on the television who had stormed Blackgate prison and freed Gotham's worst criminals than the pained and prisoned man who had been her patient. He'd changed out of the gray scrub slacks and into a pair of very dark tan cargo pants. On his chest was a dark brown bullet-proof vest, something she knew helped with his back and ribs along with the matching waist belt around his hips, and the black wife beater he still wore underneath the braces. His black military boots thumped on the floor as he came further into the room, tossing his long brown coat aside.

"Have you gathered your lists, Doctor?"

Camille stared straight up at him as he came closer, his very, very large body completely dominating the already small bedroom. She thought maybe she should feel afraid. Gotham's liberator had returned back to his normal self completely now, back to the man who had made the Batman suffer and leaving patient 0977 far behind. But while she did feel intimidated some, she didn't feel fear. She knew his ways like she knew his face behind the contraption that gave him relief. And as long as she did as she was told, she would be somewhat safe from physical harm. Or at least, that was what she'd convinced herself of.

Bane held out his hand and took the paper from her with the list of all the drugs she would need for him, and gave them to someone she couldn't see outside the door. He quietly gave the man orders as Camille looked past him to the very small bit of window she could see outside the bedroom, and discovered that it was already again dark outside from the night sky. Bane had kept her locked in here all day with no food and nothing to do.

After they were alone, Bane closed the door again and locked it, tested the handle before walking further into the room. Hadn't he realized that she wouldn't try to escape again? Did he really think her so stupid and foolish?

"I'm really hungry," she said, and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"You may eat tomorrow once you've been given the correct medications and can begin your work."

Camille felt the sad frown begin to bring down her still plum colored lips, and shook her head to block the memories of when she'd been allowed food for her own hard work when she'd lived with her family. Everything was starting to feel incredibly familiar.

She knew that kind of familiarity could be her very worst enemy.

Hoping for a distraction because she suddenly desperately needed one, Camille looked to Bane and saw him removing his vest. She found herself watching, and then snapped herself out if it once the black wife beater came off as well.

"What are you doing?" she asked, a little hitch in her voice.

"Preparing for sleep."

She blinked and looked to the one bed in the room, and then back at Bane. "You're sleeping in here?"

"Yes. Does that bother you?"

She didn't know how to answer, and tried to keep her eyes off the impressive back still turned to her. "Where am I going to sleep?"

He turned around, and saw the same look upon her face when she'd been spying on him in his cell one late night at the asylum. Her expression almost made him grin. "You have the option of sleeping on the floor, if you wish. This is my place and I will be sleeping there." He pointed to the mattress with the one blanket carelessly tossed on top of it. "But I have no objection to you sleeping there as well. The floor is quite hard and uncomfortable."

Camille didn't think the floor could be as uncomfortable as she was feeling right now. She considered it as she asked, "How long are we staying here?"

"We will continue to live here until the new location is ready. This place is not ideal for me and my work."

"And what work is that?"

He kicked off his boots, his voice low and almost anticipating. "I taught Gotham to know true justice before. Now I will teach the city what the consequences are when you severely cross me. They now cling on to the image of a man they know to be locked away and stripped of everything. They've forgotten who I really am," he murmured, and brushed his fingers over the spidery tubes of his mask as he sat on the edge of the mattress. "I must remind them."

Camille stared at his hands as she remembered one of their sessions together when he told her how he'd taught Gotham a lesson with the hanging CIA agents when they'd tried to foil his schemes. It was something he seemed to relish in doing. She shivered slightly as she thought about how he would teach Gotham again, the punishment no doubt even more unrelenting than before.

She heard him grunt softly as he maneuvered his large body on the mattress, and then looked to the floor.

She really didn't want to sleep on the floor. And she didn't want Bane to come to think of her as completely submissive, almost like a dog sleeping on the floor at his master's feet. It would be the only thing she could hold on to, to keep herself from breaking and becoming a zombie like the rest of his followers. She considered again, and decided to do what she thought was best for herself, for her humanity. For the part inside her that she knew was slowly sinking into old ways, and ultimately old habits.

She stood and went to the other side of the bed. Bane was turned onto his side, facing away from her, the muscles in his bare back constricting with every deep breath he took into his mask. He'd pushed the one blanket away, and only took up enough space he would be content with.

Camille tilted her head to the side some as she stared at his skin, and closed her eyes in annoyance once she felt the returning tightening in her lower stomach. Deciding to once again ignore it, she hesitantly climbed onto the mattress, deciding to keep all her clothes on tonight. When he remained motionless, she pulled the blanket over herself and turned on her side away from him as well.

Because they'd only had very few hours of sleep the previous night, they calmly fell into an easy sleep, facing away from each other as their dreams came to distract them from the body just a few inches away.

Camille dreamt of her family, of the depression that had been the result of her time with them, a darkness that she was unconsciously letting consume her again.

Bane dreamt of Talia, of her face, of her body, of her voice as she would softly whisper to him that he was perfect and how much she cared for him as she lovingly touched his mask. He held on to the memory with all his strength, and let it take him over in the peaceful slumber.

"_We have been in the dark for too long, my love," Talia murmured to him, running her hands up and down the back of his mask as he rested his head on her stomach during one of the nights they could be together during the revolution. _

"_I'd rather be in the dark with you than in the blinding light without you." _

_Talia smiled at his words lazily and moved her hands down his strong back, admiring his strength and feeling the rush of possession. "But what a glorious light it will be. And you promised to follow me anywhere, didn't you?" _

_Bane slowly opened his eyes and rubbed his face on her stomach as he moved his hands up behind her shoulders. "Yes," he whispered, and sighed softly as she ran the tips of her fingers up his back. _

"_You promised to take care of me, to protect me. To love me." _

"_I do love you." _

_Her smile widened, her control increased as she moved her legs, feeling his arousal for her as she spread them. Of course he loved her, she thought as she pulled up the hem of her nighty so he could have her again. He would always love her. She would make him. She would give him no other choice. Bane was hers, and he would follow her into the light that would destroy them both in the end because she told him to. A darkness settled over her brown eyes as she turned her head so he could bury his face in her neck as he buried himself in her body. _

_Bane moaned into her neck and took her hips into his hands. _

_Talia's smirk was one of pure ecstasy and power as she grasped at the back of his shoulders with her nails. _

"_I do love you, Talia," he murmured again, and took one of her thighs to press into his side. He needed her close. He craved her body. His wanting for her was never satisfied, never fulfilled because it was always there. _

"_I know you do." _

**TBC**

**A/N: It's a lot of work trying to establish a relationship, a plan, and sexual tension all at the same time. But as your loving writer, I'm working hard to get all those things for you within each chapter. The next one will be exciting. I'm pretty stoked about it. And of course I had to come up with a stupid reason to get Bane back in that sexy coat of his, haha. Thank you for all your reviews, lovelies. I don't know how I could go on without you! **


	14. The Poet and the Pendulum

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 14**

**The Poet and the Pendulum**

"_I cannot cry 'cause the shoulder cries more. I cannot die, I, a whore for the cold world." - Nightwish_

Dreams chased him, memory moving into memory in a turbulent race. Being with Talia for very few, very precious hours. Touching her skin and seeing her smile bloom when she talked of death to millions. And then oddly, Camille fussing over him and worrying about his pain when there was truly nothing she could do. Her expression when he'd called her Snow White. The fear and betrayal in her eyes when he'd had taken her away, and her ex-husbands life in the palm of his hand.

The unhappiness in her black eyes, and the marks along her forearms.

Then, Bane was back again, awake again, in the very chilly, dank room of the washed up apartment complex his men had acquired for him and their regrouping. He could tell by his learned internal clock that it was dawn and time to rise, even though his body tempted him with more rest. Giving in for just a few moments, he relaxed on the mattress and breathed into his medicine steadily.

A loud, smooth sigh emitted in the small bedroom, and Bane's eyes were open again.

He stayed still as he felt something crawl along his thigh, first going up, and then slowly roaming down. His body instantly awoke to full alert. Glancing down, he saw a foot with toenails painted the color of cherries, and watched as that small foot moved along his thigh, slowly and gently. Sleepily, and softly.

And just after he discovered the friction to his leg, Bane then felt fingers on his bare back. He seemed to slowly realize every foreign feeling on his body, his nerve endings coming to life and feeling skin to skin contact. He was about to turn, about to push Camille away, until her moving leg enveloped his, entangled their limbs and bringing her already close body flush against his back. And when she pressed her face between his shoulder blades, he glanced behind and saw her deep in a dormant sleep.

Bane knew she was a restless sleeper. He'd heard and seen the tossing and turning of her body the night before in her apartment after she'd fallen off from exhaustion. During her sleep, her body couldn't seem to get comfortable or find the right position it had wanted. He'd watched as she kicked at the covers while lying on her stomach, and batted the pillow away so she could lay completely flat. It had been amusing at first, and then annoying when it wouldn't stop. He had only guessed her body wasn't relaxing because he was there, and kidnapping her so she could help him.

Now, as Camille tightened her leg around his thigh and snuggled closer to him, he discovered that it was just her body reacting normally during sleep.

She stretched, a low, almost purring sound vibrating in her throat, and Bane could feel every curve and surface of her body against him. He felt her nails slide along his skin softly as she moved, felt the bare skin of her stomach against him as her tank top rose up from her stretching, and almost cringed at the gentle tickle of her blacks curls along his back.

And when he felt her stretch again, and her left hand very slowly moving forward over his waist, he moved away, sitting up at the edge of the bed and glancing behind at her.

Her hand had dropped when he'd moved, landing in the space his body had occupied, and her other limbs curling in. Her hair was a wild mess as usual, a few black curls now taking up his side of the bed and the others behind her, hanging off the edge of the mattress. She breathed steadily through her slightly open mouth that was still stained the deep purple color she'd painted on her lips the day before. He watched her draw her dark brows together in sleep, assumed she was dreaming as she slowly and sleepily rolled onto her back, her right hand now resting on the side of her head.

Bane couldn't stop his eyes from wandering down to the visible white skin of her stomach where her shirt had bunched up from her restlessness.

He looked away then, and convinced himself that his eyes had only felt the need to roam because of his memory of Talia during sleep.

Life suddenly seemed so much crueler now that she was gone.

* * *

Bane glanced out at the bay in the chilly, gray early morning just a few yards from the complex. The soft ripple of the water mixed with the weather gave off a threatening, almost spooky vibe. The sun had been swallowed by the empowering clouds, promising rain, promising snow. Telling the city of Gotham that this winter would be just as harsh as the one before it.

And now that he was free, he hoped to cause just as much damage.

He continued to watch the water as he heard Barsad approach. His right-hand man's appearance may have changed so that he wouldn't be snatched by the police, but Bane knew the sounds of his men. It was a great quality to have as leader. He had once heard Talia's father say that to another member of the League. Knowing your men meant having better control over your men. And Bane knew his men, the loyal ones who had followed him for years, like he knew himself.

Ra's al Ghul may not have had Bane in mind when he spoke of leadership, but the mercenary had filed the training away regardless.

"We have a few men paying one of the more… secondary mobs of Gotham a visit this morning. They'll take the weapons we need so we have something. Those who wish to live will either join us or be killed." Barsad stood next to his leader, watching the water as well and feeling more like himself. The year and a half of transforming his body into someone who didn't even exist had been hard and expensive. And he'd hated every minute of it. "More weapons are also being shipped from our contacts over-seas. It'll take a while to get them, but the generous donation of the mob will see us through until then. The new location should be finished and ready next week. Modes of transportation are no longer an issue."

The wind from the water beat at Bane's coat as he nodded. "And the other supplies?"

Knowing he was speaking of drugs, Barsad answered, "Next stop after the weapons. They have her list."

"Good," he said cheerfully. "I need for you to make a money transfer." He reached inside one of the deep pockets of his coat and handed Barsad a small piece of paper.

Barsad glanced down at a written account number and amount. "This is quite a pretty penny."

Bane thought of Ronnie Pierce and his dying son. He'd told him he was a man of his word. And he was. "It is nothing more than enabling the hopeless. Make the transfer. Once the medical supplies arrive, have food be brought to the doctor as well. She'll need nourishment as she works."

"To be honest, sir, we can find someone who is willing to do the work. Keeping her here against her will is just an extra job."

Bane looked up into the gray sky, saw a flock of birds flying away to warmer weather, soaring away from coming destruction. Camille's face came to his mind when she'd pleaded desperately with him to spare her painter, when she'd simultaneously given him her life in return for her ex-husbands.

"She is willing," he answered, and walked away to see to his men as police sirens echoed in the distance.

The hunt was on.

* * *

Camille was angry. Angry that she was once again locked inside this stupid room with nothing to do but wait for Bane. She'd gotten up and dressed an hour ago, slipping on her black leggings from the night before with one of the many tank tops she'd apparently packed. Annoyed, she picked up her lipstick again and slid the baby pink bullet across her lips so they wouldn't chap in the chilly weather.

She refused to let Bane live with chapped lips while in the asylum and under her care. She'd be damned if her own lips would meet the same fate.

Another hour passed, until some of Bane's men entered the bedroom and dumped boxes onto the floor. Understanding that they knew her purpose there, she remained unafraid as the brutish looking followers of her patient – she would still refer to Bane as her patient since her job of taking care of him had apparently not ended with her kidnapping - silently gave her what she needed, along with a glorious plate of food.

After they'd left, Camille inspected the one wing and leg of the rotisserie chicken on the plate, and then devoured. After her hunger was satisfied, she opened the boxes and began the task that would keep Jackson safe.

The boxes held everything she needed. His men obviously knew what went into keeping their leader medicated. She wondered if anyone had ever tried to use that to Bane's disadvantage. But while remembering his intellect, remembering his ruthlessness, Camille decided that no one smart enough had ever tried.

Bane's men seemed to be a content bunch.

It took her hours of backbreaking unpacking to get everything organized and suited to her liking. Camille was a woman of order, and would remain one even during a time like this. And because she'd taken an oath, had made a promise to help the mentally unstable or anyone who was suffering in the mind, she would make sure that Bane's medicine was administered with great care and satisfaction.

She didn't have to like it, but she would do it. She had to or Jackson would die, and she would lose the woman she'd turned herself into after she'd left the claws of her family. Becoming a psychiatrist had been what made her independent from her family and from Jackson after their divorce. To lose the professional inside her would be to lose herself.

Camille worked hard the entire day to set up the small bedroom with the equipment she would need to do her job. She unpacked the drugs, unloaded the morphine, set up the canisters nicely on the small table she was given, and then built what would be Bane's new IV stand. She had to make sure she had the appropriate needles for the work, tools like droppers and swabs. Antiseptic and sterilizer.

The threatening notes suddenly came to her mind as she glanced at her tools, and she mused about how she had everything she could need to do what the words had tried to frighten her into doing.

She could kill Bane with all these things, she told herself. She could end him and rid her city and herself of the masked man who couldn't be forgotten, no matter how much the government wanted them to forget, and act normal again.

But Gotham would never be normal. And Camille would not cave in to the crazy citizens of a city she very much disliked.

She would not kill her patient because he was still hers.

Looking over at her pill bottle, Camille once again ignored it and went back to work.

* * *

The days came and went. Work was done all throughout the city by the criminals, the badge-wearing crime fighters, and the doctors of a city that would never know of true happiness, of contentment. Of freedom from the ones who would bring it harm.

Bane's escape was kept under wraps by the police for as long as they could manage it. And once time ran out and the media was forcing its way down their throats, they'd regrettably had to make a statement. Word of his escape from Arkham Asylum spread like the worst of wildfires. The uproar of Bane being kept alive after the revolution had become nothing compared to what the police were facing now. Many people left the city in fear that they would soon no longer have that choice again. Residents were quitting their jobs, others were constructing methods of safety, and many were out buying as many guns and other weaponry as they could afford in case they would be stripped from their homes and killed like so many others had been last year, for only surviving. Commissioner Gordon had made a public statement that was watched by every single citizen of Gotham, promising the people that they would find the mercenary Bane, and see to it that he would never roam free in their city ever again. Wanted dead or alive, Bane would be brought in and done away with once and for all.

Camille worked hard in the small room she and Bane would share at night. She'd never really had to create a certain prescription like this before – it had always been done for her. But she was slowly getting the hang of it, slowly getting used to mixing the drugs with the cocaine that would give Bane relief, and cleaning everything properly so infection would not be an issue. The only time she ever saw Bane was when he'd come to sleep late at night, or come to her for morphine so he could eat or have her refill the canisters to his mask. She came to think of his mask as something like a complicated, giant nebulizer, turning liquid into gas through the tubes around his face. And because his body had been withdrawing from the drugs for a year when he'd undergone the surgeries to save his life, and weeks after that during his stay at the asylum under her watch, his body was consuming the analgesics at an unusual rate, seeming to soak it up much faster than what had been normal before his mask had been taken from him.

And as the days went on, Camille felt a kind of despair she hadn't felt in a long time. She would work for hours, see her patient for just a few moments before he would leave her with her loneliness again, making her feel a misery that had coursed through her at a particular time of her life. A kind of control over her that only one other person had held. And Camille would have nightmares of that person, of her mother, each night Bane would lie next to her and simply sleep before she would wake up alone again to do more unappreciated work. She felt the young, abused girl of her past slowly consume the professional woman of her present, and Bane taking the place of the family that had beaten her down, tore her apart.

Bane was coming fully into power again. He may not have the city sealed off from the rest of the world on his watch, but he would be content with what was instead of what used to be. His revenge and destruction to Gotham City would be like a cancer that spread. His army was gathering, his resources multiplying, and his new home almost complete. But most importantly, his pain was being kept at bay by his maternal Dr. Camille. She did her job and did it well, fully knowing that she would suffer if she didn't please him. And by the way his body was feeling now, her work was satisfactory. To be able to exercise and train his body again was worth the price of the sad face of his doctor. Maybe she thought that he couldn't see the way her eyes had lost their brightness, the way her skin had taken on an almost gray hue. The fact that his men would always return with a barely eaten plate every time he sent them with food for her so she could function properly. Maybe she didn't think him to be a very aware man, even down to the simple knowledge of knowing that her precious pill bottle did not seem to empty as the days went by. But because she was doing the work well, he didn't bring it up and couldn't allow himself to care.

The only thing that was becoming a thorn in his side with her was the events during the night.

Her restlessness increased, and it was keeping him up. He could remember when her precious Jackson had commented on her being a light sleeper. Bane decided that her ex-husband didn't know her very well, had never really known the real woman he'd been married to. Bane had almost gotten used to the sound of her tossing and turning about as she slept, but it was when she'd touch him that would waken his body and keep him from relaxing. If this hadn't been the only bedroom in the unsuitable apartment he still regrettably had to stay in, and the only bed, then he would have her sleep somewhere else, away from him.

She was always moving, always reaching, seeming to always want the heat of another person against her as she slept. One night he'd woken to her head resting on his bare back and her legs dangling off the side of the mattress. Another night she'd curled into a fetal position, her backside pressing into his hip and her hair all along his shoulder. On the nights she would have the nightmares Camille thought he knew nothing about, she would reach for the waistband of his cargo pants and once again wrap her leg around his thigh.

But the worst night had been when he'd found himself on his side facing her, her face so close to his that Bane could practically touch her nose with the mouthpiece of his mask, and her hand resting on his neck as she breathed softly in sleep. He'd wanted to flinch back and just make her sleep on the floor. Instead, he watched her face, stared at her lips, and let his eyes wander down to the skin he could see when her movement had caused her clothing to become askew.

Bane knew he had impeccable self-control. He'd learned that control during his years training in the League of Shadows. Ra's al Ghul had demanded that kind of constraint of the members, of the initiated.

What he was starting to hate was the natural impulses of being a man. There were some things that he couldn't seem to stop, like his wandering eyes and roaming thoughts when he would watch the strap of her tank top slide down her shoulder, and the way her body would arch whenever she would do one of those lazy stretches.

And this would be what he would wake to every time he dreamt of Talia.

Talia knew he'd had other women, just as he'd known she'd had other men, men like Bruce Wayne. They'd come to accept it, because of their goal, and knew that they would never find the kind of release with others as they had with each other. He'd craved Talia and her body the way he did food and water when he'd been trapped in the pit, needed her as he needed the medicine keeping his pain bearable. He'd never had fantasies of any other woman except his dead love. She'd been more than enough for him in every way.

Now, his thoughts were drifting to a woman with a different face.

Bane grunted softly on the mattress and arched to crack his lower back. He turned onto his back, pulling the pillow higher up behind his neck for more comfort. He felt more movement as his eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, and watched as Camille slowly sat up, her eyes still closed and her body heavy with sleep. He wondered for a moment if she was awake, and then dismissed the idea when he saw her begin to struggle with her shirt.

Remembering the night he'd stayed in her apartment after escaping – and now completely aware of how restless she actually was – Bane knew Camille was a woman who would get annoyed with clothes during the night. Still sleeping, she tried with all her little strength to remove the hindrance that was her shirt, even whimpering a little when it just wasn't working out for her. Bane watched for a while as she struggled, even sliding one hand behind his head during the entertainment.

The skin at her lower back became visible. Her hands sleepily glided over her body to find something to latch on to and remove the fabric she was so annoyed with at the moment. The yoga pants she wore for sleep hugged at her hips, tightened on her thighs, the lush feminine curves of her body suddenly becoming more apparent to him. He found himself taking a deep breath when he spotted some black lace that were the cups of her bra, and simply could not stop his eyes from travelling down her waist and seeing the same matching black lace of her panties that were peeking out from above her tight yoga pants.

She was annoying him again, and he had to make her stop.

Bane reached out and softly put his large hand on the back of her head, grasping gently on her skull under skin and black curls. Slowly, he pulled her, her weight falling into his hand as he coaxed her back to deep sleep. When her head finally hit the mattress again, he was just about to pull his hand away from inside her hair until she turned her body towards him. She touched his forearm to the hand that held her face and curled her fingers.

Her grip on his forearm tightened when he saw her nightmares returning to her, her discomfort feeling even more real now that he was touching her, and more intense.

Slowly, Bane removed his hand from her face and left her to suffer within her sleep, and the name of the ex-husband who wouldn't save her upon her lips.

* * *

She couldn't stay in the room any longer. She would lose her mind and destroy the place if she did. And when she told this to Bane one evening as he willed himself to fall to sleep and pretend she wasn't there, he'd agreed to let her roam about the unkempt apartment. And as soon as he saw her step even one small foot past the door without his consent to do so, that privilege would be gone.

She dressed for comfort, pulling on a pair of black shorts – even with the chilly weather to consider – and a baggy gray sweater with her Steve Madden boots. Her hair had been freshly washed the day before, kept down to keep her ears and neck warm, and her lips were painted a bright fuchsia pink. She'd been feeling so horrible lately, and needed something somewhat happy to decorate herself with.

As she made her way down the flight of stairs that seemed to house many of Bane's men even though the space was terribly small, she stopped when she heard the loud sounds of punching. She remembered when Jackson had tried bringing her along to the gym with him, and the kickboxing classes he'd been obsessed with. Camille peeked over the corner and into what she guessed was supposed to be the dining room, but had been fashioned into a makeshift gym. The sliding glass door that led out to the backyard that was in terrible need of good landscaping was open, letting the cool autumn air swirl through the dank apartment. The large and very thick punching bag hung from the ceiling, taking the rights and lefts of Bane's destructive fists.

Camille put a hand on the corner of the wall and watched. She peeked over a little further as Bane destroyed the bag with aggressive punches. He was half naked, wearing only his pants and back brace for support, the somewhat disturbing sounds of his delivered hits echoing throughout the room. And because she was still feeling the lack of interest with her choices, she let her eyes travel along his bare skin, eyeing the way his muscles would constrict inside his large body with every thrust of his quick fists. His skin seemed to shine from slight perspiration even with the cool air leaking through the open door, his sweat almost enhancing the contours of his body. He moved with such a comfortable quickness and strength, his body seeming more at home as he trained than if he were to do anything else. Camille couldn't understand why she would feel so insecure around his body every time she saw him shirtless. She saw him that way every night when he would prepare for bed. Every night she would see him the way he was now, bare from the waist up and almost seeming prideful with his physical structure.

And there it was again. That feeling she couldn't explain, that awareness she wanted to ignore as it snuck back inside her. That sensation in her lower stomach that would pull at her, something she couldn't comprehend every time she watched him. A feeling she could barely remember, but wanted to.

Camille removed her gaze off the man with the unimaginable body, and rested her back against the wall, out of sight. She softly placed her hand on her stomach, and tried to fall in tune with her body. The way she had been feeling lately, she felt like she was losing touch with herself. But she couldn't lose herself. She had to hold on. She closed her eyes and tried so hard to hold on.

_Why can't I function?_

"Camille!"

Bane's loud and sudden boom of a voice made her jump. She let her heart settle again before peeking back around the corner and saw him pacing about, his fists clenched and his head down as he steadied his breathing.

She suddenly didn't want to go to him. She didn't want to be around him when he was still all sweaty from his workout, shirtless, and panting. She wanted the unfamiliar feeling in her body to go away and leave her be. She wanted so many things.

Bane yelled for her again.

Giving in because she had no other choice, Camille stepped fully around the corner. "Do you have to yell? The room is right above you. I'm ten feet away."

"I need to eat."

"You need to learn how to inject yourself."

She hated herself when she felt slightly unnerved as he stared at her. The old feelings were coming back. She blinked her eyes hard so she wouldn't picture her mother where Bane stood. She couldn't allow him to take that place inside her mind. But she was starting to feel the invisible hand around her throat again, tightening a little more each day she was here with him.

Bane rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands. "Retrieve your tools, Doctor, and bring them down here."

Camille sighed because she didn't know how else to react, and went back up the stairs. She returned moments later with morphine and the appropriate needle, an alcohol wipe, and a cotton swab because Bane could tend to bleed excessively when a vein was punctured. She hung the morphine on a key hook next to the small table he sat at, waiting for her to drug him so he could shovel protein and carb filled foods down his throat with the least pain as possible. She stood next to him, could smell his musky scent, and wiped his arm free of the sweat from his exercise with a towel.

She turned his palm face-up and gently cleaned the inside of his elbow with an alcohol wipe. The vein she'd already injected so many times before smiled up at her, waiting as always for relief. She fanned it dry with her own hand before setting up the needle and the tubes that the drug would travel through.

Bane watched her as she worked. He'd always known she had an unconscious motherly way about her. Even while he'd been in the asylum, she'd always treated him gently and made sure he had everything he needed, sometimes giving him things that hadn't even crossed his mind, doing things for him that only seemed second nature to her. He wondered if it had anything to do with her practically raising her brothers as her own, because her own mother had neglected the duties. And while Camille had said that having to see her brothers as her children had been the worst thing her mother had done to her, he also wondered if she knew that she gave that same impression off whenever she took care of him.

Once Camille had the needle ready, she took as much of his arm into her hand as she could, and slid it beneath his skin. And while musing over the gentle care she gave him whenever she did something like this, a question came to his mind.

"Did you and your painter ever consider children during your marriage?"

She didn't lift her eyes to meet his. Instead, she watched the tubes and made sure the morphine was flowing into his vein properly. "Yes," she muttered.

"You wanted to be a mother."

Camille thought back to a time when having a baby had been so important. She thought about all the precautions she'd taken, all the tests she'd done. And knew she was enough psychiatrist to know that the only reason she'd wanted a baby in the first place was because it would have been Jackson's baby. A child that would belong to both of them. "No, I didn't want to be a mother," she answered truthfully, and felt somewhat relieved. "I was forced to become a mother to my brothers. I didn't want to go through that again. But… there was a time when we tried."

"And obviously nothing came from it."

She didn't know why she was having this conversation with him. He rarely talked to her this way anymore, now that she was only there to meet his medical needs. But, just as it happened the night she told him of her past, she couldn't seem to keep her mouth closed. "I miscarried a couple of times. It wasn't that horrible of an experience for me, to be honest. I would only stay pregnant for a few weeks until I would lose it. My body just… isn't able to hold on to a baby, I guess."

She could remember the doctors telling her that they honestly didn't know why she was unable to hold on to pregnancy. It was just one of those things, they'd told her. She looked at his face then, saw his familiar green eyes past the mask.

And just as her body couldn't seem to take pregnancy, she knew from Bane's own medical examinations during his long stay in the hospital that he would never be able to conceive either, not that she thought Bane would want children. His body had long ago lost that aspect of life, just like how he'd lost the ability to grow hair or succumbing to a mass amount of drugs. Certain functions no longer applied to him. His body had been through too much.

Camille gently removed the needle from his skin and decided that the world was better off without people like them adding to it.

She quickly covered the small puncture with cotton and held it there with her thumb.

"Lane is not an Italian last name," he said, repeating something he'd told her long ago. "Tell me your maiden name."

She removed the cotton, made sure he was no longer bleeding. "Why?" she asked.

He stared into her black eyes as she came a little closer to him, almost at eye level because she was so short, and slowly lifted her hands behind his head to unlatch his mask, the soft clicks of the bonds being released vibrating underneath the straps. Her hands then went to the sides of his head, undoing that section as well. He glanced down for a second, eyed the unusually bright color of her lips, and answered, "Curiosity."

The mask's latches had been released, but she held it against his mouth so he could continue to breathe in his medicine. She stared into his eyes, feeling her chest grow tight, and wondered what it was about him that could make her feel so… wrong. So many things were going on inside her, and at the same time so much nothingness. How could someone feel, and not feel at all? She glanced down at the scars on his chest from his surgeries after he'd been shot by the cannon. She'd wanted so badly to help him, and now all she did was tend to his needs as she felt her own self fade away into the black.

She kept the mask against his mouth as she whispered to him. "I never thought you had schizophrenia."

Something like amusement came into his eyes as he held her gaze, eyeing the dark shadows on her face that reminded him of her restlessness he knew about all too well. "I know."

He took a deep breath, a routine they did every single day, and she pulled the mask away from his face once the gas stopped. And there was her patient. She stared into the eyes of the man she'd first gotten to know, before he'd returned to the monster the city remembered him to be. Her gaze instantly went down to his mouth, the fullness of it, the scars around it. This was the face of her patient.

"My maiden name is Angeli."

She stepped away from him then so he could quickly eat the plate left for him, knowing his body could only hold the effects of the morphine for so long before the pain would return. Camille quickly checked to make sure the canisters in the back of his mask weren't dangerously low for him, and set it softly back onto the table for him to retrieve after he ate.

She watched his back as he hunched over his food for a moment, and then suddenly felt the familiar pull on her shoulders, the yank that would make her too tired to do anything, the tug that would make food too much of an effort to eat. The sadness that would tell her it's okay to be alone, okay to feel lost.

She'd just been given the right to leave her room. Now all she wanted to do was go back to the windowless space and turn off all the lights. She wanted her Lexapro to call her, and she wanted to once again ignore it.

Camille walked away, and went back up the stairs to her room until Bane came to go to sleep.

* * *

She'd been told that they were leaving very soon, and that she was to pack up all her equipment so that it could be transported to the new location. The city knew of Bane's escape now, and to be in some insignificant apartment complex that only held some of Gotham's unfortunate was no longer an option. They had to get to a more secluded area so that the rest of the mercenaries could continue to rebuild and regroup.

Camille spent hours with labeling and boxing up everything she would need to tend to Bane, organizing everything to perfect order, just the way she preferred it. And after everything had been taken away in her perfectly organized boxes and bins, she felt exhausted. And she felt… different. Something was happening to her, and she couldn't gather enough strength to figure out what, or how to stop it. She thought maybe she should take one of her pills. She told herself she didn't need them.

She'd tried to sleep then, in the bed her and Bane shared every night because she was too stubborn to show him any kind of submissiveness, letting the chilly air caress her already cold and pale skin. The sheets smelled of nothing, the room smelled of nothing. She tried to smell her hair, her skin, her clothes. Nothing. She turned off all the lights again and heard a soft cry within herself, and then her mother's voice.

"_You have to take care of me, Camille. No one else will take care of me. You want to keep me safe, don't you?" _

Camille's chin trembled. She stared up at the colorless ceiling. She watched it morph into the ceiling of her old bedroom when she'd been young, the warm colors of her childhood home. She looked down at the black dress with the flowing skirt she had to put on because nothing else had called out to her. Her mother had forbid her to wear dresses when she'd lived with her. She didn't want Camille to seem any bit more attractive than her. A little fear sank into her chest, and she felt the sudden need to change so she wouldn't get in trouble.

"_Keep me safe, Camille. Do what I tell you to do." _

"Yes, Mother."

"_You need to work hard. The family is counting on you. Only you." _

"I can't handle it," she whispered, and held her eyes closed and brought her knees to her chest. She wouldn't cry. She couldn't remember the last time she'd given into tears. "I can't take care of everybody. No one likes me."

"_You know I love you, baby girl. But you need to listen to me. You need to take care of me, so nothing bad happens to me." _

"I can't."

"_You can. You will. Because I tell you to." _

She suddenly yelped when Bane barged into the room. She trembled a little as she watched his black silhouette glance about the dark space, then flick on the light, blinding her.

Bane tilted his head to the side some as he stared at her. She looked like a wreck. The straps of her dress were all twisted and bunched, her hair was wild as usual, and her very dark red lips shivered. Her eyes were sunken, her skin colorless, and her hands grasping around her knees almost as if she would fall apart if they were moved. She was only just a couple inches over five feet, but seemed so much smaller as she huddled on the bed, almost like a child.

He didn't have time to press the issue.

"We are leaving this retched place. Gather yourself together and come with me."

Remembering herself, Camille took a deep breath and tried to remain the cool and composed woman she knew she was. And not the other part of herself that she'd tried to bury with pills. "Where are we going?"

"Home," he answered simply, and tossed her leather jacket at her.

Camille thanked God for the distraction as she slipped on her jacket and black boots. Of course, every boot she ever owned had a heel, and she willed herself to remain steady on them so she wouldn't fall down the stairs. She took in Bane's outfit as she ruffled her hair some. He'd put on black pants and his own heavy black leather jacket. Dark navy gloves covered his hands and his mask continued to hiss. He waited for her to stuff her lipstick of the day into the pocket of her jacket, along with the pill bottle she still held on to.

"You seem… out of sorts, Camille."

She willed her teeth to remain still. She didn't know what was going on with her body, and hated that now even Bane was questioning her on it. She had to get herself together. "I'm fine."

"Good. Come now." He took her arm, and practically pulled her down the stairs with his long strides.

Walking out to the outside for the first time in days made her squint and cringe just a little. The air was cold, almost uncomfortably, and the sun hidden behind the gray clouds. It was Camille's favorite weather, and all she wanted to do was go back inside.

Bane dragged her over to the blonde man she'd heard him call Barsad and the same man she'd first seen when they'd arrived here, Ilyas. She assumed the others had already left. Once Bane nodded to them, they each moved to what made Camille feel a slight panic. The other two men boarded their motorcycles as Bane pulled her to the one waiting for them.

"I'm wearing a dress," she said to him.

He slid one of the helmets onto his head, minding his mask carefully. He glanced at her through the eye opening. "Perhaps you should have reconsidered your choice in clothing for the day."

"I can't change. My stuff is gone."

"Then I'm afraid you will have to take great care not to let your skirt fly up." He held out a green helmet to her. "You will need to gather your hair so that none is visible. You have officially become a missing person in the eyes of the police department, Doctor."

More of what felt like panic was settling on her chest again. She tried to push it back. "I can't ride this thing in a dress," she whispered.

"You can and you will," he said in a low voice, his eyes holding annoyance.

She stared at him. He sounded an awful lot like her mother. Isn't that what she'd just told her? No, Camille told herself. She didn't say anything to you, she's not even here. Not anymore. Bane is not your mother's replacement. Even after all he's done to you and the city, he simply cannot take that horrible place inside you. He's not your mother.

His patience was thinning. He didn't have time for this. Without another word, he gathered up all her hair roughly and stuffed it in the helmet before he slid it onto her head. Irritated now, he slapped her visor down and forced her onto the motorcycle behind him. He ignored her attempts to sit on as much of her skirt as she could before he started the ignition, and the bike roared to life. Bane signaled for his men to go before driving away, Camille wrapping her arms around his waist.

He ignored the way her body trembled behind his.

Camille rested the side of her head against Bane's back as he swiveled the bike through the city. She didn't keep track of where they were heading. It was oddly the furthest thing from her mind. She felt the pill bottle in her pocket, and thought that it was burning her through the leather.

Panic was riding just under the surface of her skin. Like the clouds above them that threatened from a distance, and never quite split and spilled.

She was twenty-seven. She was a woman now. She wasn't back with her mother.

No, the voice that was her mother said to her, making her grasp onto Bane's waist harder. You are helpless. You are broken. And he is just like me.

"_You say anything about what goes on in this house, Camille, and they will throw you and your brothers into a hole. Do you hear me? They will take you away. And it'll be all because of you. You don't want that, do you?" _

Camille squeezed her eyes shut. She could fight this. She'd always been a fighter. She'd fought her mother like this before, and could do it again. This was nothing she hadn't already come up against. She would win.

Another voice entered her head. And it was then that she knew she'd lost. Her composure broke, and she sunk.

"_I need you." _

Bane spoke to her now. He said he needed her. And not in the way she wanted to be needed. He'd stolen her away from the world she'd created for herself. Ripped everything apart and was bringing her back to the terrible places inside her that she tried to block off with depression medication.

"_You still have so many other uses to me, pretty Camille." _

She felt herself hyperventilating. And she couldn't stop it. She thought of everything she'd done for Bane, for her patient. She'd put hours and hours of hard work into his rehabilitation. She almost lost her job because she'd crossed the line and ignored Dr. Arkham's orders. She'd given him unapproved medicine for relief, so he would feel just a little better. She'd been getting threatening messages in the mail and on her fax because of him. The people were harassing her because she was trying so hard to treat the man who wanted them to burn.

She'd given him her life to save Jackson's.

And now, after all that, after all she'd done for him, he was treating her this way. He was once again making her work hard to take care of him, blackmailing her with the life of the man she both loved and hated so that he would stay medicated. He was selfish. He was using her after she'd done everything for him.

Bane was her past coming back to rip her apart again. He was just like her mother.

Bane glanced over his shoulder as Camille started to writhe behind him. He felt her whole body shaking uncontrollably, her nails digging hard into his stomach as she squeezed against him, trembling, shivering, losing control. And when she started to back off the bike's seat, he quickly signaled to his men to go ahead, and pulled off into one of Gotham's trusty alleyways.

Her chest was heaving when he spun around to grab her. He heard her whimpers as she tried to bat at his hands frantically, trying with all her might to get as far away from him as she could. Seeing no other choice because of her hysterics, Bane grabbed her by the neck and pulled her to sit in front of him. They were very close to their destination, and knew that the chances of being pulled over were slim. With one arm he held her tightly against his chest, feeling her shake and spasm, hearing her heavy breathing even over the roar of the bike.

He drove the bike down into an underground garage. They'd arrived, and he was angry.

He roughly pulled Camille from the bike and dragged her kicking and now screaming once he removed their helmets. The sounds of leaky pipes and rumbling machines couldn't drown her out. His men watched as he fought with Camille to stay still, ultimately throwing her over his shoulder as he stomped through the dark hallways of their new home. Once he found a sufficient room that only held a bed and a dresser with a mirror attached, he dumped her onto the floor with a _thunk_.

"I came to think that you would not be so foolish as to try to _escape_, Camille. I may have to punish you now."

And then she broke completely.

Bane stood still as he watched her crumble. As she bawled like a baby, shoulders heaving, chest hiccupping, nose running. She wept into her hands, sobbing, looking like a little broken doll. She gasped, she whimpered, she cried and cried and cried.

"Look what you did," she squealed, gasping for breath with every sob, her tears running like waterfalls down her face, smearing her makeup down her pale, sunken face. Tears she hadn't felt in forever. Until now. "You made me nothing again. You made me _nothing_!"

Bane stared at the broken heap at his feet, at the woman who was now using the skirt of her dress to hide her crying face.

"You're just like her. You son of a bitch. I hate you! I hate you, I hate you. I'm nothing again…"

He saw her shaking so violently he thought her bones would break and shatter. When he spoke, he kept his voice low and calm. "I believe you are having a nervous breakdown, Camille."

"I did everything for you… I gave you _fucking_ _sleep_ when you needed it! And you do this to me… Make me take care of you, just like she did. I did everything…"

He watched her for just a few more moments as she sobbed on the floor, and then decided to leave her be. Quietly, he turned on his heel and exited the room, locking her in with her grief. He heard her sobs echo down the hallway as he left.

Camille grasped at her clothing because she didn't know what else to do with her hands. They were shaking and she couldn't get them to stop. She felt like a young girl again, trapped in a situation from which there was no escape, no one to save her at all. And because she felt like the girl she used to be, she looked up at the dusty mirror in the strange room Bane had dumped her in, and saw salvation. She stood and approached it closer, ignoring the completely distraught reflection of herself. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Except the mirror, and what it could do for her.

Frantically, she grasped the edge of the wood surrounding the old mirror, and bared her teeth as she banged it repeatedly against the wall behind. She cried some more as she used all of her strength to slam, to pound, to shatter. And when it did, when the mirror broke into many glorious pieces of glass, she grinned through her weeping, laughed a little.

Her hand shook as she reached down to pick up a beautiful shard. There it was, she thought, and glanced at her tiny reflection. This is what she needed. This is what had saved her, and would save her again. She needed it, like she needed air. Like she needed release.

Her breathing quivered and her body trembled as she slowly lifted the skirt of her dress.

* * *

A while had passed, and Bane thought it was time to check on his doctor. He'd already made sure that the new location was satisfactory, and had given his men more orders for the night.

Their new home was the underground facilities of a very old and abandoned amusement park that had gone bankrupt about thirty years ago. At the time the park had been open, the staff had set up their offices, security, machinery, and storage all underground, since the space in Gotham had been limited and run by the mob. Above the service, the rides and stands had been torn down and the land considered for something of more use. But when Gotham's crime rate had taken a turn for the worst, certain decisions were put on hold. The undergrounds hadn't seen human life almost in the thirty years it had been empty. Until his men came along and made it more ideal.

Now it was Bane's, and no one would find him here.

As he neared the hallway, the leather of his jacket squeaking softly and his boots thumping along the hard tile floor, he wondered if Camille's nervous breakdown had passed, or if he would have to leave her again to get some kind of control over herself. He'd never seen her that way before, didn't know she was capable of losing it the way she had. It was somewhat… strange to see his cool and composed psychiatrist break. And when he thought about how the whole ordeal had happened because of him…

Bane ignored his thoughts and unlocked the door, pushed it open. And was greeted with the sweet metallic scent of blood.

Camille was lying on her back, her hair in a jumbled heap above her head and one hand resting there as well while the other was draped across her stomach. Her face was turned away from him, and her legs stretched out in front of her. The mirror had been shattered, shards of glass littering the floor she'd collapsed on.

And when he saw the blood that coated her legs and the deathly pale color of her skin, he wondered if she was dead.

Bane inched closer, moving as quiet as a shadow as he took her in. He crouched down next to her body and noted her chest moving as she took slow and steady breaths. Her eyes were closed, and her lips the color of old blood to contrast against the paleness of her face.

The image was very much macabre, Bane decided. She looked as grim as the dead.

He watched as that very dark red mouth opened slightly, and her head slowly moving to look at him. She stared at him blankly, her eyes dark, glazed, and searching. The coolness, the composure she wore so naturally, was gone.

She pushed her words through her throat and felt them burn. "I feel better..."

Bane blinked slowly and dropped his gaze to the blood that coated her leg down to the knee. Gently, he took some of the skirt of her dress into his hand and lifted it, pushing it up to reveal a long and nasty gash along her upper thigh. The blood had dried in some areas yet remained moist, the cut beginning more towards the inside of her thigh and ending almost at the edge of her dark blue panties. Next to her thigh was the shard of mirror she'd used to cut herself, her blood sprinkled along the edges.

She watched him as he inspected her newest cut, saying nothing and watching as more tiny drops of blood would flow down her thigh. He had the most incredible eyes, she decided. Eyes that looked at you as if everything but you had simply melted away.

"I want Jackson," she murmured to him.

He lifted the skirt of her dress a little higher so it wouldn't touch her gash. Modesty no longer seemed to be an issue now that she was laying here bleeding. "I know you do."

Her body gave the slightest jolt as a hard chill went up her spine. Bane watched as more blood oozed from her cut. He heard her moan very softly, and watched those blood colored lips lift ever so slightly at the corners.

"I want Jackson," she repeated, feeling the goosebumps along her thighs from the cool air once her skirt was no longer covering them. "I love him."

"Darling Camille," Bane cooed to her, waiting until her eyes met his again. "I'm afraid he does not feel the same way."

She weakly drew her brows together as she stared at him, ignoring his probing hands and the fact that her thighs were now completely exposed to him. His hand moved along her skin softly, touching the dry blood and making the pain of her cut take a backseat to other feelings. A low, spreading sensation filled her belly, and her heart began to thud. She swallowed to moist her very dry throat.

"Stop touching me," she whispered.

Bane lifted his gaze to her again. Her face looked a little delirious, a lot worn out, and somewhat spooky from the smeared makeup that had run down her cheeks. She tried to sound determined, but Bane heard something else in her voice. His hand held her thigh just under the bleeding cut. He lifted a brow, almost smirked under his mask. After everything that had just happened to her, Camille was failing miserably to hide what she was feeling right at that moment. She said she wanted him to stop, but her body remained motionless.

"You would like me to stop touching you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her as if in challenge. He moved his hand down behind her knee. "I'm not sure if you really want me to."

He slowly moved his hand down her calf as he watched her face, and continued to wait for her to bat him away. She remained still. His own eyes darkened ever so slightly as images of her at night came to his mind and how she would look as she tried to cuddle him, images of her that first night in her apartment when she'd taken her clothes off right in front of him. Forgetting just a little, Bane began bringing his hand back up her leg, feeling her skin underneath his fingers as they travelled all the way back up to her bloody thigh. He wanted to keep going, wanted to touch her even higher.

He blinked when he saw her chin quiver just a little, and instantly removed his hands.

Glancing back at her cut and seeing that it was still bleeding, Bane stood and went in search of a first aid kit. Camille remained in the same position on her back when he returned. He sat on his knees, lifted her injured leg and rested it on his thigh so he could see more closely. The hand that had been draped across her stomach now held the skirt of her dress, squeezing it as he cleaned her cut and the blood from her skin with antiseptic.

She gave a shaky breath as the tiny stings of pain vibrated along her leg. "Why are you doing this?"

Using tweezers from the kit, he plucked a small piece of mirror from her cut. "I cannot have you dying on me. It would be too much of an inconvenience to find someone else. And I rather enjoy your lovely bedside manner."

Surprisingly, she gave a breathless laugh. "The government told us to be normal," she muttered, her eyes heavy as she watched him clean her. "After you, they just wanted us to be normal. This isn't normal. This is…" She searched for the word.

"This is life," he answered, and dabbed some iodine directly onto her cut, causing her to wince. "And life is relentless and unbalanced."

"Unbalanced," she repeated softly as he began to apply dressing and bandage to her wound, and a pretty blonde head came to her mind. "Look at me. I might just be like Harleen Quinzel after all."

"Don't speak such nonsense. What's happened to you isn't by psychotic actions. It is just life and its cruelties. And unfortunately, the only cure for life is death."

Her brows came together as she contemplated, agreed. "Do you remember when you told me that you believed I understood that Gotham deserved to burn?"

Bane ran his fingers along the bandages, made sure they were secure before nodding at her.

Sadness swan into her eyes. "You were right. I hate this place." Tears were surging back, and she struggled against them. They made her tired, made her feel stupid. All she wanted right now was Jackson. And she wanted him to go away forever at the same time. "I don't really have any friends. I'm sure that's my fault. I don't relate well to people, knowing everyone is so… horrible, even while I try to do good by them. My family…" She looked down at the scars along her forearms, and at the bandages on her thigh. "My mother was not a nice woman. But I tried my best to take care of her. And I hated myself for that, hated that I let myself become brainwashed and used by her, and that I knew it was happening to me the whole time."

When Bane remained silent, Camille looked to him, saw his staring, intense gaze. And when he leaned forward, he took the back of her neck into his hand and lifted some.

"Do not allow her to use you anymore," he said coolly. "You are a fighter. I can see it. But you tolerate the dysfunctions of your life to the point of this." His other hand grazed her dressings. "Your insignificant pills can only numb you for a little while. Life cannot be forgotten by something so trivial. You can only endure, Camille."

She breathed softly as her hand gently touched his jacket, grasping weakly at the lapel and holding on. His gaze dropped to the dark red of her lips against pale skin. Fearing that he would forget himself again, Bane picked her up from the floor and set her onto the small bed. Just as he was about to turn and leave her, her grip on his jacket tightened. He gazed down at her with questioning eyes as his mask hissed.

"Jackson doesn't love me." Suddenly, that was very real, more real than it had ever been to say it, the brutal reality punched like a fist. Grief gushed up, she swallowed it back down. "He doesn't love me, Bane."

He slowly shook his head and lowered himself onto the side of the bed next to her. "No, he doesn't. He can't anymore. You must break your soul tie to him."

Intrigued, she stared at him so innocently, he thought he would smile.

"Remember what I told you, my dear. You became bound to him the first night you joined intimately. And the reason why you are so drawn to him is because you have no one else to compare him to. Your freedom will come when you remove him of his place."

He saw realization in her eyes then, understanding his words and taking them in. The room around them still smelled of her blood and tears, shattered glass still littering the floor where she cut herself for release. Her color was still gone, her face still ruined by smeared makeup, and her lips so blood red they looked almost… alluring. Bane chose his words carefully as he watched her body continue to ward off the depression that had gotten the best of her today, his voice mechanical and low.

"Your deliverance is simple to obtain, Camille. To break your soul tie, you must first replace Jackson Lane's touch on your body. You must be with another man."

**TBC**

**A/N: Holy hell, what a long chapter. But you all are so worth it! Things have heated up from this point on. Expect the unexpected, and review for your gracious writer. Kisses to you all, my darlings! And make sure you all listen to the songs I chose for the chapters so you can be engrossed in the story even more. Thank you so much for your reviews! **


	15. Snow White Queen

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 15**

**Snow White Queen**

"_I can't escape the twisted way you think of me. I feel you in my dreams and I don't sleep." – Evanescence_

For some people, death wasn't a horrendous occurrence. For the people who knew life to be what it was, termination could be as simple an act as going home. Life was the true adversary. For the ghosts who drifted without a purpose, for the lost who would never find a home, for the broken who would never know how it felt to be fixed. Life was a ruthless opponent, one who never wasted time blocking, an enemy who came at you with fists raised and sharp teeth bared.

Life seemed to be full of pain and chaos, occasional fear. For some, the few happy moments in between had never stood a chance.

Camille touched the small gold cross at her neck, and wondered when exactly she'd become this cynical.

It was hard know you were loved by a higher power when those who were supposed to be closest to you refused to feel it. It was difficult to understand that there was a God out there who would never forsake you when you felt totally forgotten. It was a struggle to tell yourself that the Lord up above had never left you when you felt utterly alone.

Maybe knowing those things about God, somewhere deep inside her, had been what had kept her going all these years. Maybe understanding that there was a much better place waiting for the righteous had been what had allowed her to see death in a different light.

She didn't know. She didn't seem to know much of anything anymore. She was a licensed psychiatrist, a _doctor_, and she felt as if she knew nothing.

Camille walked about her bedroom, the one Bane had dumped her in a couple of days ago, and began the process of setting up her medical equipment all over again. It took more unpacking, more organizing, more hours of work that she'd already done, but had to do all over again because they'd moved, and because it was expected of her. Bane expected the work from her so she could continue to keep him well.

The effects of her nervous breakdown had taken a few hours to leave her. After Bane had left her that night, after he'd patched her up because he refused to allow her to bleed to death on him, she'd cried herself to sleep. The feeling of crying, of giving in to everything going on inside her, had been such a foreign feeling, but one that had been building up for years. Seven years of never really coming to terms with what had happened to her during her upbringing with her family, and four years of being divorced from a man she still cared for. Never once had she cried. Not one time had she exhausted herself from weeping.

But now, the nervous breakdown had finally ended. With it had come miserable realizations. After it came the nothingness.

After she would finish her duties in tending to Bane she would crawl back into bed and sleep. She would clutch her Lexapro bottle in her hand and close her eyes, letting the dark become her blanket. Her dreams even consisted of nothing. The hours she was awake, she would do what she had to do for Bane, keeping her pill bottle in her pocket or inside her bra just so she could feel it with her, and simply go through the motions without any kind of animation. Eating became a chore. Doing something with her hair took too much energy and would just be put up and off her neck. Conversations with Bane became nonexistent. But what had made her indifference become as real as her own skin was when her lipsticks remained untouched.

Camille knew she was losing herself when she would look at her reflection, and see her bare lips.

She could only muster up enough strength to take care of Bane and his medications, dress herself, eat a few bites of food each meal, and redress the cut on her thigh every day. Everything done indifferently. Everything done without spirit.

She felt empty in a way she'd never felt empty before. As if everything she had ever been was flushed away. Without bones, her body would have no weight. Without skin, she would cease to have form. The wind would come, blow her away like a pile of dust, and maybe it would be better that way.

Once her nervous breakdown had ended, she'd gotten over the image of Bane taking her mother's place in her life. Bane himself had nothing to do with that. She knew it was her own thing to deal with and get over. Bane was just another name on a list of people who needed her for certain things that she didn't want them to need her for. But, as she curled up on her bed, feeling the lovely throb on her upper thigh, she fully accepted Bane's role in her life. She had to, because there was nothing she could do to change it.

Her feelings for Jackson were a different story. She knew he was the reason for her depression now. She wanted him back, and knew that was impossible. She loved him, and knew he would never love her ever again. She wanted him to touch her, and knew he was touching someone else.

Bane told her that her soul was bound to Jackson, tied in a way only certain actions could sever. And while she believed Bane, even trusted him in a dysfunctional kind of way, those certain actions seemed so out of reach to her.

What would it be like to be with another man? she wondered as she walked away from her worktable in her small bedroom and back to her twin-sized bed.

Camille had been a virgin when she'd met Jackson Lane. There had never been any time for friends and boyfriends for her growing up. Her mother had never allowed it, had sheltered her unhealthily. Jackson had been her first and only lover. No other man had ever touched her intimately, had ever seen her naked, had ever given her release. And while Camille knew what it took to please a man, had pleased Jackson countless times when they'd been married, she could now admit that she'd never really been given the chance to explore her sexuality the way she'd always wanted. It had been a part of herself she'd had to close off and ignore because it wasn't Jackson's thing. Her ex-husband was perfectly content in getting his own orgasm and drifting off to sleep, always leaving her wanting more, needing more.

Bane had said that she needed to replace Jackson's touch if she wanted to be free of him. But Jackson was all she knew. He'd been the only one to show her the way, to tell her what to do, explain what men really liked. How could she be with someone else when she only had Jackson's words and her experience with him to go off of? Of course she knew things – she was an adult after all, and certainly not innocent. But knowing and actually doing were completely different things.

How could she allow another man to touch her when she only wanted that one, familiar man? What was she supposed to do now that she knew what it was to love someone until it hurt, and to prefer the emptiness to the pain that had been so familiar it was rarely noticed?

Camille loved Jackson. But her love for him was tearing her apart. Camille wanted Jackson. But she was experiencing those same, almost forgotten stirrings around someone else. Camille wanted to save Jackson. But she wanted him to die, and never bother her again.

* * *

"How lovely," Bane murmured as he watched his men reach into the crates that had arrived earlier in the morning , and pull out an assortment of rifles, hand guns, and snipers.

His contacts over-seas had most definitely come through for him again. And now that his men were fully equipped with weapons and their location suited more to their liking, they could have their revenge on Gotham City before they would leave it in the dust it was always meant for. And because Bane was their leader, his revenge was their own revenge. Vengeance would come to those only he saw fit.

Bane had quite a list.

"This place has been taken off the books," Barsad commented, dressed for battle and holding his new toy, an AS50 semi-automatic high-powered sniper rifle. "The old amusement park above us is a thirty year old memory. No one knows of this place. Not even the police. We have weapons, men, and transportation. We have a plan."

Bane smiled underneath his mask. "And what is the plan?"

Remembering what his leader had told him, Barsad answered, "Revenge first, then destruction."

Bane nodded. "Good. Destruction will come when the city remembers us once more. They are blind, their minds closed. But when they see, they will see fear of pain, and fear of death. When their minds open, then they will die."

"The men await orders, sir."

Bane absently placed his hands on the collar of his armored vest as he watched his mercenaries work. Some of them had been with him for years, and some had just only been recruited from the bowels of Gotham City. The veterans knew that everything was done in good time and planning. The rookies were just itching to become the conquerors they believed themselves to be.

Bane decided that they will learn soon enough how he led his circle. If they weren't happy, then they could be easily terminated and replaced. Watching over them and judging, he could already spot out the unlucky few. The pawns.

"All in good time," he replied.

"Ilyas wanted me to mention that your lady friend does not eat much. She has yet to carry a skeleton look about her, but her plate remains somewhat full each time he retrieves the trash."

"Ilyas is not to concern himself with matters in which he is not involved. You will tell the men once again that no one is to bother her."

"Yes, sir."

Because he felt the need to walk and talk, Bane mentioned for Barsad to follow him down the hallways of their hideout. "We are going to need a man who excels in the area of technology. An expert hacker. The revolution took many of our important soldiers away from us."

"I'll find someone."

"I'm also hoping we can make some kind of deal with the predominant mobsters of Gotham. They will have connections even within the police department, and that can be invaluable to us. We will need as much access to different avenues as we can manage."

Barsad drew his brows together in confusion, but kept composed because it was expected of him. "How long are we planning to stay here?"

"Until the job is complete, brother. We will finish the task, in her memory."

Barsad knew when to keep quiet and when to question. And after learning of Talia al Ghul's death, he knew it was a subject that only Bane could bring up. Understanding his leader, he silently agreed. But couldn't help the delight he felt on the inside that the mad woman would not be the one ultimately calling the shots. Bane would now answer to no one. "A lot has changed in just over a year."

Bane eyed Camille's closed door as they neared it. "This city is powerless now that they have lost their Dark Knight to the fire."

"The people still speak of a light in the sky. They say the light brought the Batman where he was needed. They say it stills shines."

Bane scoffed, but delighted in the fact that the citizens of Gotham were giving themselves hope for something that was long dead. They could wish for a savior all they wanted now. And when they remained defenseless, when they finally understood that their city no longer had that powerful protection, they will eat each other, destroy their own city in their frantic need for security.

"The light left Gotham a long time ago."

* * *

Camille sat on the edge of her bed in her dark purple panties as she unwrapped the dirty bandages around her upper thigh. She'd rolled the sleeves of her gray sweater to her elbows as she did the task, her leggings tossed onto the floor so she could tend to her wound. The first aid kit was next to her, the necessary supplies out and ready for use. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail so she could work more efficiently, already too long to do much of anything without her curls getting in the way. Tossing the dirty wraps into the trash, she wondered how living in this underground place could be chilly yet humid at the same time.

Her cut was looking well, she decided as she inspected. She knew it was bad enough to leave yet another scar on her skin, but hadn't been deep enough for stitches. And because she'd been somewhat of a professional in the area, she knew when to sink the sharp edge in and when to hold back.

Camille sighed at herself. Bane was right yet again. She was a hypocrite. How could someone help others mentally when she herself was so very screwed up in the head?

"We're all screwed up," she whispered to herself, remembering the words Bane had spoken to her when she'd told him the story of Harleen Quinzel.

She applied more disinfectant and iodine to her cut before picking up clean bandages. It didn't hurt so much anymore. And when it did, it was oddly satisfying. She'd been feeling so much emptiness that the sting of pain was somewhat pleasurable. After she was properly bandaged, Camille walked over to the replacement mirror in her room to insect her handiwork.

She found herself staring at her reflection, at a woman who'd done so well professionally, but had royally screwed up every other aspect of her life. She'd been on a wonderful road to success, before all this nonsense. She'd been moving up in her career, ready for the high profile patients she'd deserved. She could've even been promoted to the head of the highest level in the asylum, the level Bane had been kept in. She could have smothered herself with so much work and never have to face her inner demons ever again.

So many _could have's_. And now she was the woman who kept Gotham's liberator whole.

Camille studied her face, noticed the lack, the blandness, the unpainted mouth that was so foreign. Her black curly hair was never given the chance to bring any kind of enhancement to her appearance anymore because it was always pulled back and kept away. She let her eyes wonder down to her body. She looked at the tiny scars littering her forearms below her rolled gray sleeves. She looked at her hips, the hips that were sometimes a problem when she had to pull on a dress. She looked at her short legs, legs that had always been weak and clumsy. Her eyes worked their way up to her chest. Slowly, she lifted her sweater so she could see her bare torso.

She could remember the evenings after work when she'd put in a twenty minute intensive workout video. She'd only done the necessary exercises so her body would still keep its natural womanly curviness and have a nice, toned look at the same time. Her white stomach may only have a two-pack, but she'd been immensely proud of that accomplishment. Camille brushed her fingers over the swell of her breasts above her black bra. Jackson had loved her breasts. Her average C cups had suited her just fine, not too big and not too small. She'd always been fine with her body, and had only trained it enough so she would have the toned muscles she'd felt were adequate for her.

But Jackson didn't want this body anymore.

Camille let her sweater fall, and drew her brows together when a sudden image of Bane came to her mind, the way his hand had touched her leg after she'd cut herself, the glazed look in his green eyes as his fingers travelled higher up her thigh. She'd wanted him to stop, but refused to scoot away. She'd wanted him to remove his hands from her skin, but could only lay there on the cold floor and simply feel.

The only reason why she wanted him to stop touching her was because she wanted him to continue.

Camille shook her head, and just assumed that the only reason why that thought had entered her mind was because of what Bane said she needed to do to get rid of Jackson's hold on her heart. Her mind was in such a scramble lately. She didn't know what to trust and what to ignore.

And certain thoughts of Bane that would make her stomach tighten were definitely something to ignore.

She should go to sleep, she told herself. That would be best. It was very late, almost midnight. She should just go to sleep and let the black take over. She could hold her pill bottle before drifting off and think of nothing but the Lexapro inside. Knowing they were there was something of a comfort. And while they remained untouched, she always found herself keeping them close. They'd helped her before. And even though she couldn't bring herself to eat one, maybe they could help her again. Soon.

She was a psychiatrist, and she didn't even understand the workings of her own mind.

She was just about to remove her gray sweater, opting for her familiar sleep pattern of wearing only her purple panties, until her door was suddenly flung open with a loud bang, and in stormed Bane in a pair of cargo pants and black t-shirt.

Camille's eyes widened as she heard the sound of him choking, coughing, his face and entire body sweating and shivering, his quivering hands grasping at the mouthpiece of his mask as he stumbled closer to her. His eyes, normally so calm and intimidating, held nothing but utter pain. He let out little gasps and groans as he fell to his knees, almost like he was trying to talk to her, but could only pull his upper body onto her bed and hold his mask.

Camille rushed over. She stood behind his kneeling body and held his head down. After popping the latches in the back, she saw that his canisters were completely empty, his body contracting from the sudden changes of having his medicine and then being without it, back and forth, for so long. She pulled his hands away from his mask and made him grasp the sheets on her bed instead, and zipped over with her bandaged leg to the worktable that held everything Bane needed to remain medicated. She quickly snatched two full canisters she'd generated earlier that day, and rushed back to Bane and popped them into the back of his mask. After the latches were secured and the soft hiss of the gas shot into his airways, Bane's body jolted at the relief, and relaxed.

He took long, deep breaths as he sunk his face into her bed. His t-shirt was damp in some areas from the sweating she knew was an occurrence of his body when it was without his painkillers, and the scars she could see a nasty shade of red. She wondered how far away he'd been when the gas flow had stopped, and if he would be angry with her that she had obviously not checked his canisters adequately the last time she'd given him morphine.

Feeling like this was her fault, and because it was her job to take care of him, Camille took Bane's upper arms and helped him lift himself onto her bed, stumbling a little from his overpowering weight. He kept himself on his side, facing the wall, and simply breathed into the medicine that was his only source of relief from his pain. Camille watched him clench and unclench his fists a few times before he became completely still, his breathing now evened and steady.

She tilted her head to the side some as Bane fell asleep, simply passing out from the ordeal this time, and making the twin-sized mattress look more like a toddler bed because of his size. She watched him for a few moments, just to make sure he was okay and no longer suffering, before a cool breeze drifted into her room. After closing the door that Bane had almost broke in his attempt to get inside, she looked down and noticed that she was still only in her panties and gray sweater. She could only imagine the scene that had just transpired if she'd gotten to the point of removing her sweater before he'd burst in.

Maybe she should put on her leggings now that Bane was sleeping in here from affliction. But she wanted to leave her leg without the extra constriction. And she had no other sleep clothes baggy enough. She also found herself no longer caring about modesty not that he'd already seen her in her panties twice before. She didn't care about much of anything, especially something so… stupid.

Pulling her sleeves back down to her wrists because of the chill, Camille sat on the tiny side space left for her on the bed. She suddenly didn't want to sleep anymore. There was nowhere _to _sleep now that Bane had taken up her entire bed after passing out. She sighed deeply, and decided to just watch him and make sure he was fine.

Her life was nothing now except doing that simple act anyway.

Camille looked over, and saw that she'd placed her hand on his shoulder, softly rubbing him, soothing him, comforting him. She stared at her rogue hand and left it there, feeling the warmth of his body and wishing she could use some of it to heat her chilly skin.

She removed her hand, and thought it best not to touch him. She looked down at her scarred forearms, and didn't want to touch him. She grazed her fingers over one of her scars, and didn't want to touch him.

She kept repeating it over and over again in her head.

* * *

Bane let out a deep breath through his nose as he stirred, and felt something draped across his forehead. He slowly opened his eyes, swallowed to moist his throat, and turned his head towards Camille. She sat next to him, her hand on his forehead checking his temperature, then placed both of her hands onto the sides of his head uncovered by the mask to get a better reading.

His temperature was fine, his sweat had dried up, and his eyes were once again bright and in control. The scars along his body had also gone back to their normal flesh color along his skin, no longer inflamed and red from his very sudden absence of his medicine.

She'd also covered him in her only blanket. His always maternal Dr. Camille.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly, and placed her fingers onto his neck to check his pulse, felt his steady heartbeat. When he nodded, she removed her hands and sighed. "I'm sorry."

Bane stared at her, saw the apology in her black eyes, and felt… somewhat confused. She'd neglected to check his mask properly, her main reason for being here. He'd sunk back into the pit of his pain because of her unusual carelessness. But his confusion didn't stem from that. When his medicine had stopped flowing, and the pain had consumed him at a level he'd never felt before, he'd rushed to her room because he didn't know what else to do. She could have easily gotten away, could have easily let his pain overtake him. Instead, she'd done the job properly this time, and was continuing to care for him even when he'd taken over her bed.

Even when she'd been screaming at him just a couple of days ago that she hated him.

He remembered a time long ago in the asylum when she'd given him medicine to bring him the sleep that had evaded his body. And when he'd questioned her on that too, she'd told him the reason for her actions were because he was her patient, and she would take care of him.

She obviously still saw him as such.

He grunted a little as he moved on his back, his spine cracking down the length of his body. Camille had yet to move. He saw that her hair was yet again tied back, something that wasn't very constant with her normally. But then again, she hadn't been acting like her normal self since the day she'd cut herself. She acted like he didn't notice these things. But he did.

Bane thought he was coming to know her. She was normally an efficient woman with a glamor shell. An aloof nature that could be unlocked to expose heat and needs under the surface. Her upbringing had been abusive and cold. She'd reacted to that by distancing herself from people, honing her mind, fixing her goals and achieving them so she could escape her mother.

Her weakness was her ex-husband.

And while that weakness had been what had ultimately locked her place with him, it angered Bane at the same time. It was a weakness he was beginning to no longer tolerate from her, a weakness he was starting to hate.

Bane took another deep breath into his painkillers, spoke low and deep. "I cannot tolerate sloppy and careless work. I would not have had to barge in here the way I did if you'd been competent enough to do your job."

"I'm sorry," she repeated, her voice impassive and flat as it had been for days. "It was my fault."

Bane blinked slowly as he stared at her, noticing all the little things that didn't make up the woman she really was.

"Camille Angeli," he murmured, remembering her maiden name, her gaze meeting his. Slowly, he lifted a hand to her face, placed his fingers underneath her jaw, and gently brushed his thumb over her bare lips. "What has happened to you?"

She frowned, but didn't turn away, didn't move her head as his thumb touched her lips again, the lips that she'd always kept painted because it was something that had made her who she was. She didn't know how to answer him. She didn't want to answer him. She just wanted to go to sleep, and be alone as usual. "Nothing," she whispered, and knew it was the perfect word to describe her.

Her answer irritated him, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he found his eyes lowering, lingering.

Camille glanced down and saw that he was staring at her legs, the legs she still had yet to cover, the legs he'd already seen, both unscathed and bloody from her own hand. She didn't know exactly where his eyes had settled, on her thighs or the panties above them. All she knew was that that strange feeling was coming back, and she still didn't know what to do with it.

Bane suddenly sat up then, making her feel the need to move so he could stand. But her body remained still when he leaned forward, staring at her the whole time with those intense green eyes. She slowly drew in a breath and almost cringed back when he brought his face close to hers. She watched as his eyes drifted down to her unpainted lips, the mouthpiece of his mask just a small breath away. She remembered the feeling of his hand on her face, his palm on her thigh, the way he'd lifted her skirt to inspect her cut.

And then she inched back, and turned away from him.

Bane felt the sudden urge to scoff loudly, the annoying itch of irritation heavy between his eyebrows. He had yet to figure out what that was about. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. Deciding to leave her to her inner suffering, he rose and walked out of her room, a sudden rage slowly starting to simmer underneath his skin.

And for reasons he couldn't explain, he slammed the door behind him, causing it to break.

* * *

Bane's room in the underground complex of the rotted amusement park hadn't been a bedroom at all. It was much bigger, much more open, probably something along the lines of the owner's office or meeting area. Old technology still sat against the walls and artistic interior design giving the room professional angels and atmosphere. After everything that had fallen apart from time and neglect had been cleaned out, his men had moved in for him a bed, security monitors so he could know who was coming and who was going, his own stash of weapons in case he would need them, a trunk full of his clothes, and a desk where he could work in peace. The soft yellow glow of a small lamp here and there gave the space a relaxing appearance, and the distant hum of machinery to keep the power on vibrating along the surfaces. There was no door, just a large entranceway that was blocked off simply with a dark curtain.

The space had suited him just fine. It was suitable enough when he needed to work, when he needed peace, when he needed to think. When he needed to plan.

Now, as he sat in the chair at his desk with schematics of Arkham Asylum's security resting upon it, he was just angry.

Bane rested his clenched fists on his thighs, the irritation in his forehead having yet to leave him since last night. He knew exactly the reason for his anger now.

Since she'd changed the canisters in his mask less than twenty-four hours ago, Camille had been greatly displeasing Bane. His aggravation seemed to be manifesting, almost like he could feel it sitting right on his chest, annoying him, angering him even further. The feeling was starting to get so strong that his men had been avoiding him all day, unnerved by the glare in his eyes he couldn't seem to shake since he'd left her last night.

His anger didn't come from her neglecting her duties concerning him. It was oddly something he'd gotten over, knowing full well that it wasn't like her to simply forget tasks that shouldn't have been forgotten. And his body would adjust soon, he told himself. The sudden changes of being without his medicine for so long while in the hospital and then in the asylum, and then having it back again was just taking his insides on a whirlwind. It was the only reason why his body had almost shut down the way it did after the medicine had stopped. His inner workings were confused, going one way and then another in the blink of an eye. But he was adaptable, and it would be in no time at all when he wouldn't fall apart the way he did if he was ever to be without his medicine again.

No, his anger didn't come from that knowledge. Seeing what Camille had let herself become, knowing she cut herself again because she couldn't deal with her depression rationally, watching her waste away because of a man who hardly ever gave her a passing thought. That was the reason for his rage now, the reason why he wanted to hit her in the face with the hope of knocking some sense into her.

Bane hated selfish wallowing. It was something he couldn't tolerate, especially after his years in the pit and the time spent with the League of Shadows. Greif was not something you let beat you when there were ways it could be eradicated, ways were you could rise up and destroy what afflicted you. Shackles were useless tools of bondage that could be easily broken with the right key, with the right will to try. Bane may not have escaped from the pit by himself, but he tried many times to make the climb. He may have been excommunicated from the League because of one man's memories and sorrow, but he used all that training and intelligence to better himself.

He had let this city have its way with him for as long as he had to. Now, he anticipated the heat from the fire of destruction, and the screams of those that had wronged him.

Camille was letting her depression beat her senselessly. She longed for someone who would never return to her, and tortured herself with wishes and wanting of a life she would never again have. She was losing herself, knowing she was losing herself with each grieving breath she took, and was doing absolutely nothing to fix it. She'd been given a prospering career, she'd been given the looks of an attractive Italian female, she'd been given intelligence and wit. And yet, she used that career to mask her own mental issues. She was letting her appearance go, ignoring the vanities that made her the woman she truly was. And she was letting that brain go to waste, simply going through the motions of the day because she didn't want to handle her own dysfunctions.

Bane had told her to break her soul tie to her ex-husband. It was the only thing that would save her from herself, and lead her on the road to recovery from her depression. He told her what she needed to do. She'd been given the tools to better herself from someone who could find a solution for everything.

Camille had ignored everything. She'd ignored _him_. And he had to sit back and watch her drown herself when there was no need for it.

It enraged him. It disgusted him. He would rather she die than have to watch her wallow in self-pity when the keys to freedom were right within her reach.

Bane furrowed his brows and sniffed out an exasperated breath as he rose, and went in search of her.

* * *

It was late, and she wasn't in her room. Bane knew Camille did nothing but sleep when she wasn't doing her job – another thing that irritated him to no end. The rage had yet to quiet inside him, wouldn't quiet until he said what he needed to say to her. After that, she could pitifully cut herself to death for all he cared.

Bane looked everywhere for her, stomping in his boots, armored vest, and cargo pants, glancing around every corner, peeking inside every room he came across. He'd even yelled for her at one point, knowing that the act had worked in the past when he had needed her. Most of his men were out, Bane having sent them off to a certain destination for later on in the evening, and the few men he still had stationed at the hideout hadn't seen her either.

He wondered for a split second if she had escaped. But then dismissed the idea when remembering the security that had been rigged on the outside. No one could get in or out without him knowing. She was here. Somewhere.

He finally found her in what had been assumed to be the common's area when the amusement park had been up and running. Old couches still sat in some areas of the big, dusty space, cracked monitors and broken vending machines remaining an eye sore. He found her sitting on the floor further into the dimmed room next to a rotting book shelf, reading an old book with her tired, blank eyes, her bare mouth set in a straight line. She had on a long, black strapless dress, the skirt spread out around her as she sat on her knees with the book in her lap, her bare white shoulders held back for good posture.

Bane glanced at her hair, saw that it was pulled back into a messy bun at the back of her head, and then at her mouth, noticed it unpainted once more.

More irritation swelled up inside him for those two things alone.

He moved closer to her, the sound of his boots echoing throughout the room, and causing her to lift her eyes from the book and slowly turn her head to him.

Her face remained blank and impassive even when she saw the glare on his.

Once he was close enough – but far enough away so he wouldn't strangle her - he stared at her for a while before he spoke, his voice low and condescending.

"You are pathetic."

Camille held his gaze, her face holding nothing, just like the rest of her. It only fueled him on.

"Look at you. You are dying because of one man, a man who wants nothing to do with you anymore. A man who will want you one moment, and then leave you as soon as a more interesting woman offers herself to him. Jackson Lane does not want you, Camille. You are _rotting _before my eyes because you want what you can no longer have. Your weakness is destroying you. And that disgusts me."

Calmly, she set the book aside, folded her hands in her lap. His glare deepened when she turned her head away from him. Just like she always did. Ignoring him. Dismissing him.

No more.

"Yes, please, by all means. Act like the juvenile you are." Bane moved closer to her as she continued to sit on the floor, his steps hard and his fists clenched. His rage boiling. "If you are so easily used then I do not blame your mother at all. I applaud her. I'm sure you just handed the authority to control you over to her without a fight. Just as you handed over that same control and your heart to a man who knows how to _manipulate_ you, Camille. He knows how to keep you this way. He knows exactly what to say to make you sink _to_ _your knees _in front of him."

Her head snapped back to him then. And Bane lifted his brows in delight once he saw the fire in her black eyes, the anger now transferred onto her face. He waited for more reaction. When he received none, he continued, his voice cheerful yet patronizing.

"You do not wish to begin the break of your soul tie because the thought of replacing Mister Lane's touch on your body disheartens you. You want him to keep that privilege. But let me be the first to tell you that he does not want to touch you anymore. Your indifference to it all is pitiful. And I cannot take it any longer."

Her glare deepened. "I don't want to talk to you," she hissed at him.

"You _will_ talk to me. I have had it. You have been given the key to your bondage. And yet you sit here, drowning in a pool of useless depression. You are slowly becoming waste. Why have you not tried to help yourself?"

Her glare softened into a frown. He wished for the heat to return. But she held his gaze instead of turning away. She held on, because maybe this couldn't be ignored any longer. Maybe he was right. He always was. "I can't," she whispered.

"Enough!" he roared, his hands just itching to wrap around her throat. The time of gentleness had long ago ended. Now, there was only rage and confrontation. "I will _not_ tolerate those words from you anymore, Camille. You _can_. Why do you say you can't?"

She pressed her hands against her thighs to keep them from shaking. She didn't want to talk anymore. She wanted him to go away. She couldn't deal with this. "Because I can't," she answered.

He stared at her, and after a while, he made himself relax. They would get through this, he told himself. Even if it meant he would have to kill her to end her suffering, he would fix this problem within his circle one way or another. Camille's weakness was now crawling its way into his life. And it was a weakness he would squash. "Tell me why," he commanded her sternly.

She refused to let her eyes fill. She'd done enough crying during and after her nervous breakdown to last the rest of her life. Instead, she watched him, and couldn't stop the words coming out of her mouth. "I… can't let him go. He saved me. Jackson saved me from my mother. Don't you get it? He's all I know."

"He is all you want to know," Bane corrected, and watched as she slowly blinked and continued to stare at him. "With time comes change and wisdom. You are not being very smart. But you are smart, and you are letting him take that from you as well." He waited for her to stand, watched as she wrapped her arms around herself, hugging herself for pointless protection. Nothing could protect her now. "We all get older, but we never completely outgrow our past. And yours is looming behind you now, this giant shadow you truly want so desperately to leave behind."

"How can I?" she asked in a sad whisper. "Whatever I want to feel, whatever I want to go away, it still comes down to the fact that I still love him. And that's that."

Bane shook his head at her. "That, if you have any spine, is never that until it's the way you want it. And right now, all I see is a woman who wants to hold on to someone who will never again love her back. You say that's that? It never is, unless we let it stay that way."

He saw something change in her eyes then. Something that had gone from hopeless and lost, to something that seemed to be a little like understanding. He held on to it, and could almost see her reaching out to take the keys to her shackles. He reached into his pocket, and held up something for her to see.

"This," Bane continued, showing her the prescription pill bottle he'd taken from her room during his search for her. "This is what happened when you allowed your heart to control your mind, your actions, your decisions. With everything else in tatters around you, you brood over a love affair that was destined to end." He tossed them to the floor in disgust, and felt proud when her eyes didn't follow them. She could only stare at him, and hear his words. "You will not survive this fight, Camille. Not if you sit back and do nothing. You have already injured yourself yet again in your suffering. Do not let those people slowly kill you. Break the soul tie and be free."

She stared at him, then let out a breath and rubbed her hair back, still locked in the messy bun, her hand a little uncertain. When he saw her rub her lips together, he knew she was almost back. He could see the old Camille breaking through. Almost.

"It's not that easy," she said, feeling so overwhelmed and confused, her heart feeling like it would explode in her chest from anxiety. "I can't just… sleep with some guy like it's no big deal. That's not how it works."

"Why? You are no longer a virgin."

Camille stared at him in disbelief, her brows raised in annoyance, and scoffed. "And that makes it easier? I retract my diagnosis. You really are crazy."

Bane's eyes narrowed. "Do not act childish."

Minutes passed in silence. She couldn't believe the things he was saying to her, concerning everything. She couldn't take it in, but she wanted to. Everything he was saying was only making her feel more confused and lost. How could she find herself when even she didn't know where she was? How could she fight when the feelings were so strong that she felt powerless? How could she be the woman Bane said she really was when she didn't know herself anymore? So many questions, and not enough strength to find the answers.

He noticed her sinking again. He could see it in her eyes, could see her inner struggle. But he had already come too far. And, unlike Camille, he would not allow the shadows of people he'd never even met beat him. He would crush them.

A sudden solution came to his mind. He glanced at Camille, at the woman who had treated him with care when he'd been locked away and condemned. At the woman who had walked with the guards to ensure his safety when he'd been too weak and distressed to protect himself. At the woman who had stepped in front of him back in the asylum when security had unnecessarily been called. He had once told her he was grateful. He'd never been unappreciative in his life. The city threatened her when they found out she was treating him, threatened her with torture and death if she did not rid him of the world.

She could rise above all of that.

Determined now, he spoke.

"I once told a dearly departed little _pest_ that I was Gotham's reckoning," he said to her, holding her gaze and wondering if she'd always looked so small. "I can be yours, as well. You are a part of Gotham. I will do this for you."

Camille's eyes widened, a slight chill running up her spine. She looked at him, standing there with all his height, all his strength, and was rendered speechless. Maybe she wasn't hearing him right. Maybe she was just imagining. But by studying his face, and the unwavering set of it, she knew her head was suddenly very clear, and that she was hearing him just fine.

"What?" she asked on a shaky breath.

Bane was never a man to change his mind. He didn't sway in his decisions like most people. Unsteadiness of that nature would not have given him his place as a leader. His orders were always clear, always collected. And it wasn't something he was going to change. He stared at her, saw the doubt and disbelief in her eyes, the unrealized insecurity she suddenly carried, something a woman like her shouldn't even let bother her. She was attractive. He'd told her that once. She was smart, and would know this thing to be exactly what it was. If he hadn't known those things about her, the offer would have never been given.

But he did know her. And she would understand.

"I will do this for you," he repeated slowly, his mask amplifying his words, and thought of how she normally looked, before she let her depression smother her. He thought of her curly black that had brushed against him when they'd had to share a bed. He thought of the pouty lips that had always been painted, the skin his eyes had lingered on when he was able to see it. He thought of her hands trying to bring him closer to her while she slept, and the struggle it had been as a man to push those hands away. He thought of her bare back that night in her apartment. Then Bane waited and let her make her choice.

Camille felt her heart beating wildly in her chest. She stared at Bane, at how he towered above her from great height, at this man who had killed so many people because he'd wanted liberation and another woman's revenge. This man, this mercenary wanted to touch her so that she could be unbound from someone else. How was someone supposed to rationalize all that? Bane had been her patient in an insane asylum. He had taken Gotham from the rest of the world with threats of death and total destruction. He had kidnapped her so that he could use her skills to keep him well.

What was sane about all of this?

Life is unbalanced. That was what he had told her. Life was so unbalanced that Bane had become the only person she could somewhat trust. The only person to tell her what she needed to do to help herself, even if it had been aggressive. But he was aggressive by nature. This man had killed. This man had conquered.

_Life is unbalanced._ And Camille suddenly knew it to be more true now than ever.

She didn't want Jackson to be the only man to ever touch her. She didn't want to continue to drown this way. Bane was right. She would die if she did nothing. Camille looked down at the scars along her forearms. She had fought so hard to convince herself that she was fine, that work could be enough for her and keep her busy so she wouldn't have to feel anymore. She had fought to blame the way she was on her family, on her mother, on Jackson. She had tried to be ignorant. She had tried to be defiant to what was really going on inside her, even fighting back her inner dysfunctions with pills and self-mutilation.

Nothing she did before had worked. It had only made her dependent on the medication to keep the depression at bay. It had only made her lose blood every single time she took a blade to her skin because she couldn't handle the emotions.

Bane watched as Camille looked up at him. Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised her arms towards him, held her hands out. And gazed at him with big eyes full of wonderful defeat.

He was on her in two strides of his long legs.

Camille shivered and let out a fast breath as Bane grabbed her, pushed her against the wall right behind her. She lifted her hands as if in surrender, and willed her teeth not to chatter from the completely overwhelming ordeal. She found herself holding her breath and clenching her jaw as Bane took her long black skirt in his large hand and lifted it, reaching underneath and yanking her panties down her legs and off her bare feet, tossing them aside. He gave her no time at all to adjust to the situation before he hiked her long skirt up to her hips, uncovering her lower half completely, and grabbed the backs of her thighs.

Camille's lungs screamed as she let out a long shaky breath, and continued to hold her hands up as she was lifted from the floor. Her wide eyes were suddenly staring into his, eye level with him now, knowing firsthand how tall he was, how solid he was. His back brace scratched her inner thighs as he pulled them around his hips, the skirt of her dress falling further back behind her. She let out short, uneven little breaths as Bane looked at her, his hands on her skin, her thighs held around him, her lower half completely bare to him.

She felt like she was on the verge of a heart attack.

Bane almost smiled at her nervousness. But just the thought that she was actually taking control and doing what needed to be done made him forget it. Instead, he focused on her body, and how she'd given him control over it. Just the feel of her at his mercy this way was enticing. He glanced down at her lower half and saw her, saw what was waiting for him. It had been a very long time since he'd been intimate with another woman. He looked at her womanhood, titled his head some when he saw that she'd been one to wax, and felt her tremble in his arms.

This was no time for uncertainty.

Bane tilted her body back some so that she was leaned against the wall, and set his knees against the wall underneath her so that his thighs could support her weight. The move made her legs spread wider around him, brought their hips closer together. Camille continued to force herself to breathe and not hyperventilate as Bane squeezed the backs of her thighs, and then reach for the zipper of his pants.

She kept her jaw clenched, her eyes wide, her hands up and she watched him pull the metal clasp down and reach inside. He readjusted his legs some as he released himself from the confines of his cargo pants.

Camille didn't even have time to look and possibly rethink things before he pushed her skirt back even more and hiked her up a little further. He held one arm around her hips, holding her in place, while the other hand quickly positioned himself at her entrance. Holding onto her thigh now, he slowly pushed inside with a soft grunt.

Those awkward hands suddenly grabbed his shoulders. Camille couldn't stop herself from yelping at the intrusion of her sex, something she hadn't felt in over four years. She squealed as she felt her walls stretching to a size she'd never felt before, a size she didn't think she was capable of holding. Bane was _huge_. And he was hurting her.

He was still somewhat soft and she was dry. Bane hated having to enter her dry, knowing that it would be harder to bring her to orgasm. But he'd had to do it quick. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes as he'd open his pants. He'd felt the hesitant tremble of her body as he'd lifted her skirt. But some things had to be done, and done in haste.

Bane began rocking his hips. He looked at Camille's face, saw that she was pained and uncomfortable, and those awkward hands had gone back up in surrender again. Pinning her fully against the wall, Bane took her hands and returned them to his shoulders, ignoring the threat of her long red fingernails. He leaned against her, feeling her body flush against his as he rested his head right next to her neck, lifting her just a little more so that she was a tad higher than him. Camille gripped Bane's shoulders hard as he continued to move inside her, the pain and the uncomfortable stretch still annoying her body.

The feeling of her clawing him, the feeling of her hot body against his even through his vest was causing him to harden inside her. Bane sighed deeply at the feeling as he moved, hearing the soft whimpers from her as he penetrated. He looked at her face again, and scowled a little when he saw her squeezing her eyes shut, her brows furrowed in concentration. Knowing what she was doing, he brought the mouthpiece of his mask against the side of her neck, and spoke deeply to her, his voice raspy and full of arousal.

"Open your eyes," he commanded her, squeezing her thigh again and making her legs spread wider around him. "You will not cower away and think of him. You are with me now."

A little uncertain, Camille opened her eyes and fully took in what was happening. She gripped Bane's shoulders harder as she watched his hips move against her as he moved inside her, growing, not giving her a chance.

Camille let out an exasperated breath as she leaned her head back against the wall. "Please," she whispered to him, no longer able to take him this way. "Please, just wait…"

Bane had to hold in a shaky breath of his own as he forced himself to stop, understanding that she needed more time to adjust to his size. He wanted to keep going, wanted to feel her very tight walls around him as he rocked against her. It had been so hard to stop, but he did, and felt her chest heave against him as she breathed.

He held her up with one arm as he pushed himself as far as he could go inside of her, the tip of his member touching her cervix, waiting there so she could enjoy. Bane held her with his right arm as the left moved up her thigh and over her lovely hip. His hand travelled up her stomach and over her breast, past her neck and into her hair.

He had to feel her hair.

A little roughly, Bane pulled the band that held her hair in a messy bun, and sighed softly at the feeling of her very long black curls cascading down, touching both of them. He possessively slid his hand into those curls and fisted them at her scalp.

Camille felt Bane breathe against her neck as he gripped her hair. With his large hands and his strength, the act could have been more painful than pleasurable. But as he pulled her hair, as his other hand dug into her hip to keep her up and above him against the wall, she shivered and felt that tightening in her lower stomach.

Bane groaned deeply as he felt her moisten around him, her wetness intensifying the feeling of his full erection inside her. He heard her let out a long, loud sigh and looked into her eyes. They seemed even blacker, even bigger, letting him know that she was beginning to feel good, and maybe a little confused by it. He pulled back from her body just a little and looked down at her chest. Keeping most of her weight on his thighs, Bane reached out with his free hand and pulled down the top of her dress, exposing to him the lovely black strapless bra that held her generous breasts. A low rasp vibrated in his throat as he stared at her, both hands moving to touch them.

Camille let out a long breath as Bane cupped her breasts through her bra, pushing them against her body hard as he squeezed. The feeling made her shiver again, and her shiver made him groan as her body vibrated around his erection. Bane then abandoned her breasts and grasped at her bottom, holding her up. Burying his face in her fallen curls, he resumed the motion of his hips, the act even better and easier now that she was wet.

Camille took him with less pain now. She still felt stretched beyond her limit, but something had changed, something that was sending chills up and down her spine, a lovely throb pulsating at her entrance and the sensitive flesh around. Gripping his shoulders at the skin she could feel around his vest, she leaned her head against Bane's, and simply felt.

Bane pulled her harder against him when he felt the shift in her body. Her skin against his pulsed to life with pleasure, her wetness coating him wonderfully and overwhelmingly. And when he heard her very soft moan, he lost it.

Bane leaned his head on her shoulder as he pumped away at her. Camille gripped him hard, her hands having moved from his shoulders to his biceps, digging her nails in and breathing deeply through her slightly open mouth. Her perception about the whole thing had completely changed. She became a woman of wanton sensations, clenching her walls around him tightly for more, curling her toes when his hands gripped her bottom hard as he pounded at her flesh.

And when he moved in the exact right angle, pumping up into her body and his lower stomach grazing the most sensitive area of her with every thrust, her control slipped, her arousal took over, her body yelled at his to keep going, keep going, don't stop.

Bane felt the urge to growl as Camille began to moan for him, moaning with every hard and deep thrust he gave her, moaning lustfully and shamelessly, moaning for him and only him, everyone else forgotten. Only Bane existed for her now, and what his wonderful body was doing to her. She felt pressure, glorious pressure that would end her, make her writhe against him, make her feel that special release she'd needed for so very long. Camille hooked an arm around his neck, holding him tightly against her as he scratched the side of her neck with his hissing mask. But the pain only intensified everything else. Growling softly, she clenched her muscles around his hard cock, forced him to go harder, and dug her nails into his skin on the back of his shoulder with her other hand.

Bane felt he would go mad with how she was reacting to him now. Who knew she would be so vocal during sex? Bane gutturally growled at her throat as he picked up the pace, slamming her against the wall, making her moan even louder with hard, unyielding thrusts.

Camille's eyes widened as she gasped loudly through her moans each time he would pound inside her. She was almost there. She could feel it. She wanted it so badly. He was so big and so solid, and driving her insane…

"Darling Camille," Bane groaned against her, his breath heavy through his mask against her neck, his hands gripping her bottom hard as he slammed into her. "Come for me…"

His voice shattered her. She squirmed in his arms as the orgasm consumed her, conquered her, tore her apart as she moaned and hissed against him. Her nails punctured his skin and clawed, her body constricting as she road it out, taking everything from him, relishing in him.

Bane tightly squeezed his eyes shut as she came around him, gloriously pulsating around him and almost undoing him. He stopped his hips as she finished, and used every ounce of self-control he had to not continue his motions and reach his own climax. This wasn't about him and his release. It was about Camille, and her rescuing herself from oblivion. Bane had beaten Jackson Lane by having Camille, destroyed the distant touch of her ex-husband's hands on her body and rendering him a memory as she shuddered against Bane from the orgasm he had given her.

Camille panted hard against him, her hands rubbing at the places on his body she had held on to, her legs going slack and weak at his sides. She whimpered softly as he pulled out of her.

She let out a weak _oof_ as Bane made her slide down his body and let her gently drop to the floor at his feet. Her legs felt too weak to close, her high still coursing through her as she panted, her skirt flowing around her, covering her lower half, and sticking to her sweaty skin.

Bane readjusted his pants and tucked himself away, glancing at his shoulder and the scratches her long nails had left on his skin, and then stared down at her. Her pouty mouth still hung open as she breathed deeply, her hair wild around her and mussed from sex. His eyes darkened as he imagined pulling at all that hair again, using that mouth for other things except driving him crazy with all her guttural sounds. Making her bite back her screams of pleasure as he held her neck and pounded away at her opening.

But not tonight. He had somewhere to be.

Bane leaned down as Camille sat flaccid on the floor, her dress askew, her bra disorderly from his grasping hands, and the insides of her thighs moist from her release. Her cheeks were pink from the sensations of her body, and her skin lightly shining from perspiration.

"Congratulations," he murmured to her, waited until her glossy eyes met his. "Your deliverance has come. The road to redemption awaits you… darling Camille."

He smirked at her as he watched her shiver from her name on his lips, the name he'd used right before she'd finished for him.

And then Bane left her to compose herself and right her clothing. There was a job to do, and now he was suddenly more eager to get to it.

* * *

The interior of Arkham Asylum was never the way he wanted it. He'd had meetings and meetings with his staff on enlivening the place up, making it more welcome, more friendly. More professional. More… prosperous. But everyone kept ignoring him, or neglecting to do it right.

Jeremiah Arkham wanted his establishment to be the best of the very best. And no one was listening to him.

He had a mind to fire everyone on staff and start anew. People who were go-getters and dreamers. People like him who understood the need for success and prosperity. But this place remained a drag. And all the lumps of insanity that were housed here made it a place no one wanted an investing interest in.

Jeremiah didn't care about what happened to the patients, just as long as they kept coming and allowing his name to continue to be printed in the papers. Arkham Asylum had become a huge interest in Gotham once the mercenary Bane had been admitted. Granted, Jeremiah had to swindle the vote, make the government understand that his place was the right choice. He may have had to lie and give false evidence of a mental illness he didn't even know if Bane had or not. Quite frankly, he didn't care. And he'd won. He'd been given Bane, and he was famous now because of it. And once things really took off for him, he could leave this heap in the dust and move on to bigger and better things. Things like politics, and beyond.

Yes, he thought. Life was good. Or at least on the days where he didn't have to work very late because the criminal who had given him fame in the first place had escaped his asylum, and brought the whole city into chaos because of it. And now, because he was highest in rank currently in the asylum, Jeremiah would have the annoying job of making sure security was being executed, and all doors were locked up for the night. He'd promised the government he would personally see to things like that ever since they starting breathing down his neck after Bane's escape.

He should have agreed to shock therapy for the masked man after all.

Annoyed beyond belief that he had no one competent enough on staff at the moment to do the job for him at one in the morning, Jeremiah rolled his tired eyes as he started up the stairs leading to the roof. It would be his last check before he could go home to his wife, and hopefully persuade her from sleep to more interesting activities.

If not, he could always call his mistress.

Sighing, he noticed the door was open, and wondered what fool had been so careless. It seemed only morons worked for him nowadays. He reached for the handle so he could close it and flick the deadbolt.

The air whooshed from Jeremiah's lungs as a huge hand grabbed ahold of his white dress shirt, and flung him through the air across the concrete on the roof level. He barely had enough time to get his bearings and scream for help before that same hand whacked him across the face, the sickening crack of his cheekbone shattering underneath his skin. Delirious, and now whimpering, Jeremiah held his cheek and pathetically crawled away from whoever had hurt him so suddenly.

And then, a booming voice sounded through the harsh wind in the night air, a voice he knew, a voice he hated. A voice he had wronged, and lied about.

"Dear, dear, Dr. Arkham. So happy to see you again!"

Jeremiah choked on his breath as he backed away from Bane. Fear and pain consumed him as Bane inched closer in his armored vest and cargo pants, his boots making him quiver with each threatening thump. Blood ran from his mouth and down his neck from broken teeth, the side of his face already swelling from fracture. He didn't know what else to do except to crawl as far away from the hulk of a man stalking him now like a bear, uselessly shaking his head as if the gesture would save him.

"You have not been taking proper care of your patients, Doctor. I should know." Bane stepped between the man's legs and reached down to grasp his bloody neck, squeezing tightly, and enjoying the way his eyes were rolling back from shock. "You see, dear Doctor Arkham, when people tell lies concerning me, it does not bode well for them. In the slightest. But maybe that is just the _schizophrenia _talking, wouldn't you agree?"

Bane watched as cowardly tears escaped from Jeremiah's eyes. The doctor continued to shake his head, almost as if Bane would disappear and he'd just imagined it all. But Bane only thrilled to it, thrilled to the quick pulse in the neck he squeezed, feeling the life of one so pitiful.

"I was not the man to use to guarantee your place with the media, Jeremiah. But I _will_ be the man to _break_ you."

Jeremiah whimpered and sobbed as he grabbed at Bane's hand. Softly, he spoke through gritted teeth because of his now ruined face. "Please," he sobbed painfully. "Please let me go…"

Bane's masked hissed at Arkham violently, causing him to jump. The doctor then moved his face away from the threatening one above him, and looked out to the distant city skyline, almost beseechingly.

Following his gaze, Bane glanced over and into the sky. His eyes narrowed as he saw the faint light in the stars, the light that Gotham City had looked to for protection. Scoffing, Bane turned back to Jeremiah with pitying eyes.

"There is no Dark Knight to save you now, Doctor. You will be tried for your neglect of the patients who count on you. I am the judge. And I sentence you to pain and suffering."

Jeremiah cringed and cried as Bane brought his other large hand up to his face, ignoring the useless attempts of his legs to kick him away. Shaking, Jeremiah whimpered loudly as Bane set his thumb over his right eye.

"Your patients needed you, Jeremiah. And you just turn a _blind eye_ to them every single day…"

Bane glared at the writhing man and pressed, his thumb sinking into his eye socket until he felt the eyeball explode beneath his finger. Jeremiah shrieked and convulsed as blood oozed from his ruined eye, holding it with his hand as Bane pushed him back onto the concrete, and began circling him like a shark, his eyes glittering in delight.

"The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests," he said to him cheerfully, repeating words long ago spoken and understood as the tortured doctor squirmed at his feet in agony. "I will _rip_ _you apart_, Jeremiah Arkham."

"Step away."

Bane blinked and stopped in his tracks. His entire body stilled in the night, the cold wind a very minor annoyance against his skin as it drifted and chilled. He knew that voice. Slowly, he turned.

Surely no one could come back from death a second time.

Bane tilted his head to the side in confusion as he stared at the Batman. The shadows kept him dark and hidden, the wind flapping at the long cape behind his armor. Keeping his movements slow, Bane inched closer, and wondered if this ghost was a twisted for of punishment. A sick game life would continue to play with him.

"The gallant Batman…" he said slowly and calmly, keeping his eyes on the shadowed face before him, the form of the hero who obviously still needed his permission to die. "Gotham's great sacrifice. How do you not submit to the cold sting of death?"

Bane's heart pounded in his chest in anticipation. He would very much enjoy breaking Bruce Wayne yet again. This time, he would make sure that Gotham's protector had no chance of coming back again. Images came to him, making him all the more excited. Images of tossing the Batman into the heart of the city in pieces as the citizens cried for their hero.

Moonlight was then cast upon the Batman, and Bane could see him more clearly now, could see the changes he'd made to his attire during his mysterious recovery.

Bane suddenly stopped, and raked his eyes along the dark form. Drawing his brows together, he realized he did not recognize this body. Everything had changed, even the voice he thought he knew. What had happened to the Batman? Jeremiah Arkham's cries echoed along the roof, temporarily forgotten.

"Leave him alone," the Batman rasped, clenching his fists and steeping forward.

Bane ignored him. He could only stare. This man was wrong. This was not the Batman. This was someone else. Bane squinted his eyes and looked deeply into those of a stranger.

"Who… are _you_?"

**TBC**

**A?N: I **_**am**_** the Queen of cliffhangers, and I am here to leave you all hanging! What I will tell you now, my loves, is to trust me. Just trust me. That's all. And man, wasn't it about time I put those two together, huh? I hope you all enjoyed it. And don't forget to trust me. I know what I'm doing for you all. I got an interesting thought from one of my reviewers. They had mentioned how they would have liked to see Camille be with someone like John Blake. And while that is the furthest thing that will ever happen in this story, I thought it was interesting to think about. Do you think Camille would be better off with a man like John Blake, or is Bane really the answer for her, considering everything she's been through? Tell me your thoughts. And don't forget. Trust me, my darlings. Trust me and review!**


	16. Invidia

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 16**

**Invidia**

"_I don't want to be like you. It seems like you outrun me every time. I want to be you. Why can't I erase you from my mind?" – Delain_

The sounds of a wailing man could terrify people in nightmares. Real mournful cries could haunt someone in their dreams, turning something so innocent and carefree into something horrible and ghastly. True wailing, true _pain_, could be something that lived with you forever.

Jeremiah Arkham sobbed and shrieked as he held his ruined eye, his bright red blood running down the right side of his face, little bits of shattered eyeball floating around in his skull. He'd curled up into a ball on the roof level of his asylum, digging his other hand into the cold, sharp concrete. Through his cries he gagged, and proceeded to vomit from the agony of a ruptured eye and broken cheekbone.

The cringing sobs of a broken man were at times a sound some people couldn't handle.

To Bane, it was a sound just as regular as the howling wind whipping at his skin.

The black clouds hovering above in the night sky separated from the bright moon completely. Light beamed down, illuminating the three men on top of Arkham Asylum's roof. Bane stared hard at the man in front of him, the man who had taken the burden of the mask before him. The man who was, indeed, _not_ the Batman. He would have been just as dark, except for the soft addition of navy blue across his chest. The mask and the shadow around his eyes kept them hidden, soulless, free of emotion so that nothing inside could be seen. His hair was shoulder length and wispy, brushing the shoulders of his black armor that covered him from his neck all the way down to the black boots on his feet. His body was strong, but youthful. His posture heroic, but amateur. His voice commanding and determined.

Bane could tell he was very, very young for what he had decided to take upon himself.

"How adorable," he said cheerfully, and looked the young hero over once more from head to toe. "I'm afraid this little game of dress up was a foolish decision on your part, _little boy_."

"Leave the comments until after I beat you, _old man_."

Bane raised his brows and clenched his fists. Yes, he thought. Very young. And once again, very mistaken. "I am quite certain that you have not come up against the likes of me, young one. I was physically superior to your predecessor. How do you think you will beat me?"

The hero smirked at him. "Maybe with my cunning wit and graceful reflexes?" He made a show of cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders before he dipped his lean body into a battle pose. "Or maybe I'll just pound you right back into the looney bin. How's that?"

Bane lifted his brow. He didn't think he'd ever come up against an opponent as cocky as this young man. And he didn't think he liked it very much. Feeling energized and ready to do more damage, he took a step forward and anticipated the feeling of crushing a second person tonight. "We shall see."

Bane lunged forward, ready to grab, ready to break, but the young hero suddenly fell into an impressive split. Very quickly, he zipped his legs to the front and kicked at Bane's shins. When Bane remained perfectly still and uninjured, he looked up at the bigger man and instantly executed a backhand-spring out of the way of large, destructive hands.

Bane watched as he did his evasive flips, and tilted his head some.

"Not easily moved, are you?" the young man commented, then nodded. "That's okay. Good thing I brought my special toys."

He wasn't quick enough. With speed such a large man shouldn't possess, Bane suddenly had the back of his hair in a vice grip, and slammed him face first into the concrete. His hands came up in the nick of time, taking most of the damage and saving his face from crushing onto the cement. The hero was then lifted up by his hair, his feet dangling off the ground, and grunted when the hard punches of his opponent slammed into his side. A few satisfying cracks were heard, then Bane tossed him through the air.

"You might wish to rethink your choice in hobbies," Bane said, and stomped closer. "You like to think of yourself as his equal. Of course the Batman would come to save the wretched men of Gotham." Bane picked up the fallen hero again by his scalp, and made him look at Jeremiah Arkham, still crying from his injuries further away. "His suffering will be nothing compared to yours. Your lack of sense has become your undoing."

"He's not the only one I'll save from you," he hissed, trying to hold in a pained groan from the sting along his side. "What have you done with the woman?"

Bane assumed he was talking about Camille. He knew the police were looking for her, and now so was this boy. He almost smirked when he remembered the condition he'd left his doctor in. "Let me assure you, boy, that she is quite enjoying her stay with me."

"I'll find her. And then I'll take her away."

"She will not leave me."

The hero smirked. "Let's bet on it."

Bane dropped the boy when his hand came up suddenly, hitting him in the shoulder with something other than a simple fist. Blood ran from a clean slice near his collarbone from what Bane assumed had been a concealed blade. Maybe he was different from the Batman after all. Bane narrowed his eyes. "You will regret that."

The boy then pulled something from his boot, and pointed. Pain pinched at Bane's upper arm a split second later as a metal claw sunk into his flesh. He was just about to rip it out until the shock of electricity followed, travelling from the wire attached to the toy the hero grasped in his gloved hand. Bane gritted his teeth, angry now, and stalked closer through the shocks and grasped the boy's neck. The broken ribs were making it a little harder for him to move now. He obviously hadn't yet acquired the Batman's impressive tolerance for pain as he did all his gadgets. Bane held him up, and jabbed into his left hip. A knee came up and socked him right in the tubes of his mask, one, two, three times until Bane dropped him. He then threw what felt like little knives at the cuts now trickling blood from Bane's body.

The boy jumped Bane, pushing him back and furiously punching him as the large man fell from the impact of one hundred and seventy pounds. His rights and lefts flew as fast as he could land them, his fists clenched tightly and full of young rage.

"Where are you keeping her? Tell me where you took Camille Lane!"

And because he wanted to, the hero slammed his fist into the metal claw that still punctured Bane's bicep, sending more shocks into his body. He looked down, expected to see agony. And instead was met with an angry glare.

"She is mine," Bane answered simply, and head-butted the boy, sending him flying back, and lifted himself from the ground as he watched the younger man hold his head, a little delirious. With an annoyed growl, Bane kicked him underneath the chin. He then leaned forward and grabbed his neck, squeezed until he heard the pathetic attempt to breathe. "Your search for Dr. Lane has come to an end, young one. She doesn't need you to save her. I already have."

The hero grasped at Bane's grip on his neck. His eyes then wandered from the ones that glared at him, and dropped onto an injury on Bane that he hadn't caused. Four nail marks had torn his skin on top of his shoulder close to his neck. They were fresh, and they were human. His eyes wondered back up to Bane's, full of shock, full of hate. He could guess what this monster had done to the missing doctor.

John Blake had helped put away many men who had hurt women, just like Bane had hurt the kidnapped Camille Lane.

"You son of a bitch," he choked, and tried to wrestle himself free. Memories of weeping rape victims tore at him, their shattered faces and broken bodies simmering a rage deep within. A rage only a cop could understand. "I'll kill you."

Bane smirked. "You will try."

He then pounded his fist into John's eye. Grabbing the hero's belt with his other hand, he lifted John higher into the air and slammed him back first onto the concrete. He heard the satisfying sound of a groan before he kicked the young man in the side, sending him skidding to the edge of the roof.

Jeremiah's wails had simmered down to painful whimpers of shock at the other end of the cold roof. Paying them no mind at all, Bane stalked closer to the fallen hero, ready to end him and rid Gotham of another masked nuisance. He stopped when the sudden cries of sirens exploded into the air, and looked up at the armada of police vehicles heading for the asylum. He heard the pained laugh of the boy below him.

"I called them," he muttered. He spat a string of blood and held up a little remote for Bane to see. "Nowhere for you to hide now… _Old man_."

Bane stared at him. And with one last punch to the face, he left the boy to his pain and walked over to the other side of the roof. Barsad waved at him from below in dark green F150 truck. After climbing down the building, Jeremiah now screaming for the police as the sirens neared, Bane hopped into the truck. The man driving pressed the petal to the floor, and off they went. Bane was handed a rifle as Barsad aimed his sniper out of the back window, setting his scope on the forehead of the nearest cop chasing after them.

"Did you have fun?" Barsad asked, and smiled as the cop car swiveled off into the closest ditch from the lack of a living driver.

The colors of flashing red and blue illuminated the inside of the truck, the sirens screaming behind them in hot pursuit. Bane ignored the annoying gashes in his upper body as he loaded the rifle. After ripping the metal claw from his skin, he then thought of ways he would break Gotham's young new savior as he aimed.

"Of course," he replied, and fired.

* * *

Camille paced her room slowly because she didn't know what else to do. Her work was done. Her duties finished. And now she was bored.

She'd been bored for the two days Bane had been gone.

But maybe the two days had been a blessing, she thought, as she sunk back onto her bed with care. Her body was still a little sore. She hated that after two days she was still feeling the effects of what had happened, what she had let happen. But she figured it was just a normal reaction for someone who hadn't been sexually active for over four years. Her body hadn't been familiar with the act for some time. Her body hadn't been used to having someone who wasn't Jackson be with her the way Bane had. She was sore. She had aches. She had bruises in embarrassing places.

Camille wondered if it was rational thinking when you felt pretty good feeling all those things.

But then again, what had been rational lately?

Outside, her body felt good. She felt a weird satisfaction when the aches would run through her, when the bruises would snip at her if she applied too much pressure near the area. When the soreness between her legs only reminded her of a job well done. She knew that those satisfactions came from not being able to explore her needs concerning sex when she'd been married. Jackson had been oddly traditional and selfish in bed. He hadn't liked it when she would pull his hair or scratch him or demand things from him.

And because she'd been the ever devoted wife, she would lie back and let him do what he wanted, what he thought she wanted.

Camille may had not been given a chance to find the woman she really was when it came to intimacy because she'd been divorced from the only man she'd ever had sex with, but after what had happened two days ago she was starting to discover little traits of that woman.

Yes, outside, her body felt pretty good. Inside, however, was much more confused and questioning.

She wanted to be free. She wanted to feel normal again. She had been given the choice to accept Bane's offer to replace Jackson's touch, and she'd taken it because she didn't know what else to do, because she knew she didn't have any other choice. Bane had told her she wouldn't survive the depression that had been consuming her if she didn't do what was necessary to help herself. And he'd been right. She wouldn't have lasted much longer. And because she'd done what was necessary, she was starting to feel like herself again, like the woman she knew she was. Like a woman who didn't have to long for the only man who had ever loved her body.

Jackson didn't have that particular power over her anymore. She now knew the touch of another man. She knew what it was like to feel someone else inside her body. Jackson truly had been replaced in that sense.

It didn't seem as confusing and complex when she thought of the situation that way. What made her question that situation was who exactly she'd replaced Jackson's touch with. Camille grasped at the ends of her curly hair and began twisting them.

She'd had sex with Bane. She'd had sex with a man who had been her own patient for weeks.

Bane, the murderer, the kidnapper, the liberator. The criminal.

What the hell did that say about her?

What did you call a woman who'd slept with someone who had killed so many people? What could you say was going on inside her mind when she'd been intimate with someone who was seen as a monster? How could she have had an orgasm with the very man who had threatened her own life with nuclear destruction? Bane had kidnapped her, for God's sake. Who knew what havoc he was causing during the two days she'd been without him?

Camille took a deep breath and wondered, as she always did when she thought back to what had happened between them, if there was something deep inside her that was just as crazy and wrong as her own mother.

And just as she did every time she would start going down that road, she would shake her head and beat the thoughts back. She'd been a fighter before she had taken Bane's case. Granted, she'd been ignorant and ignored the issues that she should have dealt with a long time ago, but she had fought and made something of herself. This last trial of depression had almost been her undoing. But she'd won this round, and she'd come to terms with all the dysfunctions of her life, all the hidden realizations. She'd stepped up. The road to her deliverance would have most likely been seen as socially unacceptable.

But she had won. It was all that mattered. She was slowly healing. And she could feel her soul returning to her again.

The first moment she'd given her body to Jackson, it had been a long road to hell and back. She'd almost succumbed completely to an inner suffering that had been building up for seven years. And now she'd given her body to Bane.

Camille would be damned if she let him have any kind of power over her because of it. She was done with hell. She was done with sadness. If it ever came back – and she knew it would - she would fight hard like she knew she could. She would eventually be free of all this turmoil, all this shame and self-doubt. She would be able to look in the mirror someday and see a woman who had risen above the abuse, above the manipulation. She would love herself someday soon, and know herself completely. The road to redemption was long, but she would travel it because she had to.

Bane's hands may have left their marks on her skin from fast, hard sex. But they would fade, and cease to exist.

Camille jumped a little when one of Bane's men knocked on her broken door.

"He wants you."

* * *

Bane sat on a chair in his big room, the light warm, the draft chilly, and waited. He'd removed the armored vest he'd had to continue to wear for two days during the great police chase that had lasted hours, days because they refused to fail the people of Gotham and let him escape again. Bane and his men would lie low for only a little while before the hunt was on again, and then travel the streets of Gotham until the trail was lost.

And that annoying boy, that young hero who they found out went by the silly name of Nightwing, had refused to give up because he was just like Bruce Wayne, and because of a lie.

Once they'd made it back to the underground complex without a police tail, Bane had stripped from his musky clothes and showered, the cuts from his young adversary's quick weapons still bleeding every now and then because he hadn't been given the time to properly tend to them. The metal claw had cut through muscle as it had electrocuted him, the slice of a blade at his collarbone the injury that would tend to begin bleeding again before the others. And the nail marks that marked him right where his neck and shoulder met was the cause of the lie the little Nightwing believed.

Bane sat in the chair wearing a pair of dark pants and the black wife beater he couldn't seem to part with, and thought of the young hero's intentions when it came to him.

Because of the marks along his skin, and because he'd been the one to kidnap the missing doctor, this new masked boy believed Bane had taken Camille's body by force. He remembered the rage he'd seen in the hero's eyes as he convinced himself of the very worst thing Bane could have done to her. But he didn't care.

Because Bane knew the truth. This Nightwing was foolish, and in way over his inexperienced head. The very thought of someone like Camille Lane giving herself to him freely was inconceivable. But the world held unimaginable truths. And one day, the Batman's successor would understand that just as much as Bruce Wayne had. The Batman had lived in the darkness. He knew what it was like to feel lost, alone, confused, and not able to get a handle on the coming sun. The little bird seemed to be waiting for the rising dawn.

But in Gotham, the dawn never came.

Bane heard the sound of clicking heels down the hall and watched as Camille opened the large curtain at the entrance of his space. He saw her raise her brows at his injuries, and approach closer so she could once again take care of him.

He stared at her. She had on a pair of tight black leggings with irregular rips down the front of her legs, and even with the chill she'd slipped on a somewhat baggy onyx tank top that ended at her navel, flowing around the band of skin he could see around her middle. He looked at the long black curls that fell down her back, no longer confined to an elastic band during the worst of her depression, and her small, glittering gold cross at her neck. His eyes then landed on her lips, and the dark shade of plum she'd painted them. She looked like herself, like the woman before the worst had taken over.

And as she stood in front of him, assessing the damage with her maternal black eyes, Bane remembered the warmth of her body and the moan upon her lips.

"What happened to you?" she asked him, and softly touched his shoulder.

He forced himself to remove his gaze from her lips and onto her eyes. "I had an unfortunate dispute with the police."

Camille frowned as she looked at his cuts, and went to retrieve the same first-aid supplies Bane had used on her when she'd cut her leg. She set everything on his desk and began cleaning the wounds. Silence consumed the room, save for the soft click of her heels every time she moved, and the hiss of his mask as he breathed. Bane remained quiet and still as she cleaned away the old, crusted blood from his skin, dabbing him here and there with disinfectant.

Bane started to feel irritation, and he didn't really understand why. The scent of her was bothering him. The feel of her fingers along his skin was making him want to cringe. Did she not remember anything that had happened two days ago? Was she trying to ignore it so she could feel better with her decision? She was calm as she mended him. She was quiet as she cleaned his dirty cuts and soothed them with ointment. She moved around his body, patching him up without a sound because it was her job to do so. She stood between his legs so she could reach his cuts easier, not seeming to care at all that they had been a lot closer only forty-eight hours earlier. His irritation rose, and suddenly he could no longer stand the silence.

"I suppose we are going to act like adolescents and not speak of previous… circumstances."

Her working hands stilled. Bane looked up at her face and noticed her eyes focused on the task at hand. She sighed, and then resumed wiping his dry blood away with alcohol.

"You brought it up, not me," she muttered.

"Why have you not mentioned anything?"

She looked into his eyes then, and slowly lifted one of her brows as if in challenge. Quietly, she answered, "Why do I have to? I was just a mercy fuck, right?"

Bane stared hard at her. Her gaze on his was unwavering. Her voice was steady. The dark shadows under her eyes were still there and looked somewhat haunting with the plum color of her lips. This woman had been lost for a little while. And now that she was back, he could only remember how she'd felt when he had held her against the wall.

Camille broke the eye contact and leaned over to toss yet another bloody tissue on the pile that held the others littering the surface of the desk. And when her flowing tank top rode up higher along her body, he saw the results of what she was trying to make him believe she forgot.

Bane spotted the discoloration below her shirt. No longer caring, he grasped at the waistband of her leggings to pull it down some, and lifted the back of her top with his other hand so he could see perfectly. He felt her draw in a deep breath as he pulled her body against his for more visible access, and glanced down at the bruise covering the back of her left hip.

Feeling the same irritation now, Camille sighed deeply as Bane inspected the evidence along her skin, trying not to touch him with her hands as he pulled her against his chest. She scowled as he pulled her leggings down a little more so he could see all of her bruise, his strength locking her in place.

Bane looked at the ugly mix of navy blue and yellow that swirled together behind her hip. After righting her clothes, he let her go. There were also tiny scratches along one side of her neck that he'd missed when she first arrived, no doubt caused by the tubes of his mask biting into her skin. Annoyed, she pulled her leggings up a little higher because he hadn't done it properly. He looked up at her with his questioning green eyes.

Camille gently touched her lower back on the bruise. "The wall wasn't even. There was a beam sticking out."

"And why did you not say anything?"

She pressed her lips together and looked away from him, her gaze landing right on the scratches along his shoulder. She definitely hadn't chosen wisely when she'd dressed this morning. But she was running out of clean clothes again. This could have all been avoided if she'd covered up better. Hoping she wasn't blushing, she answered, "I… didn't really notice at the time."

Camille glowered at him when she saw his eyes, and the way the skin would crinkle at the corners when he would smile. She could always tell when he was smiling underneath the mask. She'd seen him smile plenty of times during session when he'd been without it. "Don't laugh at me."

"I'm not."

"You are. I can tell."

Bane let his gaze drop to her body still standing in front of him, and searched her white skin. "Do you have any other marks?"

Camille set her jaw and tried not to think of the other faint bruises she had on her ass from his gripping hands. "No. Don't laugh at me," she threatened again, and poked him on the scratches her nails had left on him. "You didn't seem to notice that happening either. All things considered."

"What do you mean?"

She suddenly didn't like this conversation, so she decided to end it. She hadn't wanted to talk about it in the first place. She gave him a look, and then resumed her task. After his injuries were clean, she prepped the bandages that she would only put along the worst of his cuts. She knew by tomorrow that he would have no need for the wrappings anymore, since his body tended to heal a lot faster than normal because of his painkillers and odd function of his system. After storing the first-aid kit away, she went over to retrieve the supplies she needed to give him his morphine. She knew he needed to eat. And the faster she injected him, the faster she could leave him and this uncomfortable atmosphere. Standing in front of him again, she went to disinfect the area of skin she would puncture with a needle.

Bane grabbed her wrist and spoke low, his mask wheezing and the soft sound of the gas filling him. "What do you mean?" he repeated.

Camille's hands tightened into fists. She was close to him, closer than she would have dared after what had happened. She tried to control herself, tried to be the composed woman she'd been before he came into her life. But when the anger rose up, she welcomed it, and decided that she'd had enough. "You really want to talk about it? Fine, let's talk. I'll tell you what I mean." She hunched forward a little, looking directly into his eyes so he knew he had her full attention. "You didn't finish."

Bane didn't look pleased now. He kept his hands on his thighs and feet planted firmly on the ground. Keeping her gaze with his intense one, he spoke low. "It only mattered that you did. Does that knowledge bother you?"

Camille held her ground and repeated, "You didn't finish."

"Are you offering to remedy that?"

She tried to keep the shock out of her face. She stared at him, watching the annoyance grow within him as he tried to toy with her, and thought back to what she had told herself earlier. Bane would not hold this over her. She wouldn't let him. But for reasons she couldn't explain, it did bother her that Bane had not reached the same point she had during the sex. But she wouldn't dwell on that right now. Instead, she decided to let him know that the whole act was nothing more than what it really was. Nothing but mercy.

Camille took a very small step closer so he would have to look up at her a little more, letting a few black curls fall in front of her face. She knew he liked her hair by the way he had grabbed it before, the first time any man had grabbed her by the scalp. She spoke low and coolly. "What if I am?"

She couldn't tell what he was feeling or thinking by the stolid look on his face. He only stared right back at her. Camille tilted her head to the side some and lifted her hand. Slowly, she pressed her index finger to the pulse in his neck, felt his heart beating steadily, and slid it down his skin and onto the scratches her nails had left on him.

"You think you're so great," she murmured to him, running her finger down each individual scratch, her eyes refusing to leave his as she spoke. "So _perfect_. And maybe you are." Camille then flicked the collar of his shirt, making it snap along his skin, then trailed her long nail down his chest so very slowly. She watched his eyes, heard his mask hiss, and knew his hands had fisted at his thighs. She moved her nail down to his stomach, stopped there, and remembered the night she had stripped to her panties in front of him because she hadn't cared. She felt that part of her, deep inside, that could do something like that again to him, and grasped onto it. "But you're still just a _man_." Camille then scratched at his stomach, held her nails against him. "I may have let you touch me, but you hold no power over me because of it. You may be able to make me do what you need me to do for you, to take care of you because you have no one else. But when it comes to what happened, you have no power. I won't go through that again."

Bane remained impassively still as she trailed her nails back up his chest and placed them under his chin.

"Last time was a mistake. You should have finished," she told him, and leaned in to softly press her lips on his cheek. She kissed him quickly, and then backed away. She watched him glower at her, and could only smile at him in return. She eyed the shape of plum lips upon his cheek, her lipstick staining him and showing her own evidence other than the cuts on his shoulder.

"I can mark you too," she said, and smacked her lips at him before leaving. She wondered if he would call her back to give him the morphine she'd abandoned. When she heard nothing, she assumed he didn't care.

Bane let out a long, slow breath as he watched her leave, watched her saunter away with her little smile, her faded lipstick. Calmly, he lifted a hand and rubbed his fingers against his cheek that wasn't covered by the mask, where she'd given him her little kiss she thought would annoy him. He looked down at his fingers, saw the dark purple smear.

She was annoying him. And now he was angry. Angry because he just sat there and let her think she was above him, touching him, telling him those things that she thought he needed to hear. He was angry because his pants now felt annoyingly tight, and she had just left him, swaying the hips he'd bruised at him, her flowing shirt gently caressing the skin underneath. He wanted to slap her for acting that way to him. He wanted to yell at her, and punish her.

Bane wanted to grab her long curls, and press her against the wall again.

And then, all of a sudden, he wasn't angry anymore. Something changed, something by the way she'd acted, by the way she'd handled the situation. Things seemed different now. Not because of the sex, but because of distant… familiarity. He felt oddly proud, and oddly reminded. He stared at the curtain where she'd left him, her scent still lingering in the room.

Camille had reminded him of Talia.

* * *

Progress was being made, and that pleased Bane. The next targets were being monitored, the police were kept at bay, as was the Nightwing, and the certain people he needed on their team were now working for him.

Barsad had found the man that Bane had wanted to add, the expert in technology that would definitely be useful to him. He'd been a prisoner in Blackgate for embezzlement and identity theft through the internet – along with a few beaten cops under his belt - up until mercenaries had stormed the prison and freed them all during the beginning of the revolution. He had been smart and evasive enough to remain uncaught. The man's name was Zaid, a very tall, very lean African American, and he was the best hacker and computers criminal in Gotham. Or so he said he was. Barsad was an excellent judge of character when it came to their operations, so Bane hadn't felt the need to question him.

He was also given the connections to a man within one of the more dominant mobs of the city. For the right pay and protection if he were to ever become made, the contact would feed them information on the police and their own connections inside the force. Bane would remain in the loop as far as the happenings within the city while he remained unseen, and told when it was best for him to continue checking off his list of people who needed to be punished. Bane would be remembered once more as something other than the monster who had been locked up in an asylum. And he would make those who had helped put him there suffer.

Bane had read in the paper of Jeremiah Arkham's unfortunate attack and injuries. The doctor had suffered from a broken cheekbone, a few shattered teeth, and was now left with only one eye. Surgery was performed to fix his teeth, set his cheekbone properly for healing, and clean out the remains of his ruptured eyeball and fix the damage there. The police had given a brief statement of their chase with Bane, but regrettably had to inform the public that the investigation was still ongoing.

The city was in a panic, yet the everyday crimes continued. The city was so corrupt that they couldn't even rationally handle what happened to them every day they were left standing.

Jeremiah Arkham had been first on the list because of his negligence and deception. The next unfortunate Gothamite would suffer simply because he'd made deals with the wrong man, deals that had had a hand in Bane's defeat and Talia's death.

Zaid, with a dagger at his hip and his fingers flying over a portable keyboard to disable security in the late evening of a cold and average Tuesday, gave the thumbs up that entrance was a go. Barsad and Illyas walked in first, secured the area with their rifles, Zaid with his dagger, until they found the owner of the home in downtown Gotham nestled contently with a book in his hand and a fire going for warmth.

Time had made his bones slow and his reflexes short. There were no minutes to spare to run, no room to fight, no security to call because it had stopped working. The newest victim was lowered to his knees with the barrels of large guns at his back, and watched with an accepting calm as Bane strolled in, comfortable in his large brown coat, cheerful because his night was about to get much more interesting.

"You should have retired a long time ago," Bane said as he neared his newest prey with a horrific sparkle in his eyes.

Lucius Fox looked up at the masked man with his hands held in surrender. And, once again the accepting man he was, he silently agreed.

Bane left a little while later with satisfaction in his step, his fists still tingling from the impact of Fox's body. He knew body casts could take about six months to come off. And he enjoyed knowing that, enjoyed the image of Fox having to lay motionless in his bed, beaten, bloody, and still alive so he could endure it all. Zaid fixed security as they left undetected, letting the length of time until Lucius was found stretch a little bit longer to Bane's delight.

On this evening, there had been no little birds of the night to save the Batman's once trusted manufacturer.

* * *

_The night was surprisingly warm, warm enough to be without a fire, without so many layers to cover the body. The temperature in the small room within the great structure on the mountain was almost perfect, or perfect enough for someone who had been given the freedom from hell on earth. _

_The League of Shadows had taken him in after they'd done their best for him concerning his pain. Ra's al Ghul had told him that he would train him, teach him how to better himself because of his weakness, how to use his affliction to his advantage. He'd told Bane that it would be his reward for everything he'd done for his daughter, and because she'd asked it of him. _

_Bane had spent so long protecting Talia, losing his face because of that protection, the normalcy of being a man without constant agony. Now, she had secured for him a home and a purpose. _

_When he'd first been brought here, to the great mansion-like building on a forgotten mountain after he'd been taken from the pit, Bane had been writhing in pain. The doctors had tried to help, tried to figure out the problem and fix it, but his body had been so re-worked that the agony was to be chronic. And to keep him alive, the doctors of the League had shoved tubes with flowing painkillers down his throat and into his battered system. They'd told him that he would have to endure this until they came up with something new, before they found an alternative that would keep him medicated and not be so hindering. The Demonhead's daughter had forced them to work long hours, screamed at them to fix him so that he could learn the ways of her father. And because she was who she was, they'd had no other choice but to obey her. _

_Shortly after, some of the tubes down Bane's throat had been removed. Only a few were left in, and attached to a large canister of the medicine that would be secured to his back. The tubes were covered with scarves around his mouth for protection, and taped to the back of his head so that they could flow easily to the main supply belted around his waist. The doctors had hesitantly told Talia al Ghul that they would continue to find better ways to help him as she inspected their work, but that this was the only alternative they could come up with on such short notice. This structure was still unacceptable for her cherished friend, she'd told them, but that it would do for right now, since Bane was now able to move and begin some of his training. _

_Bane didn't care how he looked. He didn't care about the weight of the canister at his lower back or the tubes medicating him jutting out from the back of his skull. His pain was still gone. He could move. He could fight. He could learn, and earn his place. _

_He put everything into his training. And as time went by, the ways to keep him healthy changed and progressed. The tubes had been taken out of his throat, and the supply to the medicine had been compacted into something smaller and less heavy. Bane could now breathe his painkillers instead of swallowing liquid. He could move about freely without the weight of large tanks attached to him, since everything had been built into the contraption he would wear around his head and on his face. Talia would not settle for less. She would make sure that her friend was able to give his all, to live up to his fullest potential. _

_Bane was to become a great leader someday. And he would be all hers. _

_Months in the League of Shadows turned into years. Both Bane and Talia were sculpted, taught, attacked so that they would use their learned skills to win and conquer. Bane was healthy and without the worst of his pain. Talia was growing, and blossoming considerably. _

_Bane could not take his eyes off her. _

_And what he didn't know was that Talia would watch him as well. She would stare at him as he trained, as he fought, as he excelled above the rest of the men. But she'd always known that about him. She knew he would look at her, long for her, forgetting the fact that he'd cared for her as a child. But they were becoming new, becoming great. And she relished in his affections. She knew she would unnerve him when she would glide past him, brushing her small, soft hand across his back. She could see the glimmer in his eyes when she would hold him, comfort him, talk to him the certain way she only used for him. _

_Talia knew he wanted her. And because he belonged to her, she would go to him. _

_And on that warm night, his door opened and in she came wearing only her silky cream colored nighty. _

_For one split second, Bane thought he was dreaming. The whole atmosphere looked to have an otherworldly presence, an ethereal quality that seemed only possible during sleep. Talia slowly walked in, watching him carefully as she approached, the moonlight casting its blue glow upon her face and body, shadows following her as if in worship. Her brown hair bounced along her shoulders, her nighty hugged her young womanly curves, her eyes sparkled for him, almost like they were reflecting the night sky. Bane couldn't seem to find the will to speak or to move, so he just watched her, watched her beautiful face as she smiled at him, and climbed into the bed with him. His mask still wasn't right, the loud hiss of pumping gas the only sound in the room, his breaths only intensifying it. Talia straddled him, noticed he only wore a pair of flimsy pants to bed, and set her small hands on his chest. _

_The hem of her nighty had risen up upon her hips as she sat on him. Talia moved her hands up his solid chest slowly, smiling contently, one strap of her nighty innocently falling off her shoulder. _

_Bane grabbed her wrists then. _

_Talia frowned at him and stared into his eyes illuminated by the moonlight, knowing that all his emotions would be expressed there, especially when it concerned her. She knew him so well, and could read him like a book. It was one of the things she loved most when it came to her friend. Looking now, searching, she saw the apprehension in his green eyes, the worry, the self-doubt. She knew he was thinking of certain things like the fact that he'd cared for her as a girl, and the inner struggle he was having with himself. Because although he had nurtured her like a parent, he wanted her now like a man. _

_She would destroy those struggles inside him. _

_Talia pouted and kept her hands where they were, noticed he made no move to remove them from his skin. _

"_I know you want me," she whispered to him, moving her other shoulder just enough so that the other strap fell as well. "The girl has grown, my love. I am a woman now." _

_It was hard to forget that fact, Bane thought, and tried to keep his eyes on hers. "That doesn't change the past," he whispered back to her. _

_Talia lifted one bare shoulder and scoffed. "Our past means nothing anymore. We are free. We are new." She took his wrists now, delighted inside when he continued to stay submissive, and placed his hands on her hips. _

_It was so difficult, Bane thought as he stared up at her. So hard to say these things to her, and so confusing when his hands stayed where she had put them. "I can't do this with you, Talia." _

"_You are being selfish," she hissed, placing her hands on either side of his head and leaning forward, domineeringly. "Do you think I am stupid? Do you think I am oblivious to how you watch me, how you want me? I know, because I know you." He was such a large man. A man who had beaten so many of her father's very best soldiers. But she was completely unafraid. Bane would never hurt her. He would only love her. Her expression softened, and she gently caressed his mask. "Do not be selfish with me, my precious love. You have always done everything for me, haven't you?" Her eyes left his to watch her fingers as they wandered over every inch of the mask covering his face. "How could you deny me now? How can you turn me away? You want me," she whispered, and began kissing his mask, little soft pecks all over his covered flesh. "I want you. You cannot deny me." _

_Bane watched as she sat up in the moonlight and gave him a sultry smirk. Slowly, she reached for the hem of her nighty and pulled it over her head, her lovely body completely bare to him, completely willing for him as his eyes raked every inch of her skin. _

_She giggled softly and brought his hands up to her bare waist. She felt him grow hard beneath her, relished in his arousal, and knew she had won. But there had never been any question on whether she would win or not. Her friend had too much self-control to submit to just any willing woman. But she was different. She was the one he longed for, the one he had died for. Bane was hers. His body was all hers. She caressed those muscles now, glided her hands over his strength, and felt her own body heat with pure wanting. He was perfect. He was powerful. And as she set his erection free and let him feel her own arousal, she leaned forward again and whispered to him. _

"_You can never deny me, my love. Never." _

_Bane groaned deeply as she lowered her body onto him, sliding him inside her as deep as he could go, trapping him wonderfully with her wet heat. He grasped at her waist, careful not to hurt her. "Never," he repeated back to her in a long sigh. _

_Talia grinned darkly as she rode him, staring at the mask that had been the result of her escape, and what would be her victory. "Don't ever leave me." _

_Giving in to her completely now, Bane pawed at her body like a madman, touching every inch he could reach, holding her so she wouldn't evaporate into just another dream. But she was here. She was real. "I can't leave you." _

_She held a hand on his chest as the other caressed his mask lovingly, rolled her hips against him. "Promise me you will always love me." _

_His heart beat wildly, he began to pant as she went harder, destroying him, riding him, sending him into oblivion. He closed his eyes and lost himself in her. "I do. I promise, Talia." _

"_Tell me you want me." _

"_I want you..." _

_The body upon him suddenly stilled, the hand moved away from his mask. He felt something change, something shift. Bane kept his eyes closed as he felt her lean forward again. This time, her hand gently touched his neck, moved to his shoulder, and then over his beating heart, resting there. He felt soft lips on his collarbone, on the skin of his face uncovered by the mask. And when he felt familiar curls fall onto his chest, the long, almost coarse curls that Talia didn't have, he slowly opened his eyes, and gripped the hips sitting on him. _

"_Tell me you want me," Camille whispered to him. _

Bane's eyes snapped open into the dark.

* * *

Camille slept soundly in her bed, a soft light from outside her room sending its glow through the crack of the door that Bane had broken. She slept on her stomach, her pillow long ago pushed away, and buried her face into the mattress. She kicked at the annoying blanket groggily, sending it to floor as always, and sighed deeply through the hair that was covering her face from her restlessness. The black tank top she'd put on for sleep had risen up from her moving so much, exposing most of her back.

Bane stood next to her bed, watching her as she slept peacefully and restlessly. His eyes travelled the length of her body, resting on the bruise on her hip from him pounding her against the uneven wall. He remembered how she felt in his arms as he took her, how she'd started off so uncomfortable, and how that pain had turned into intense pleasure. He remembered how he had pulled those curls that were now tickling her face and annoying her in sleep, and how tight and wet she was around him once her body begged him to keep going, and don't stop. He could hear her long, deep moans in his head as he pleasured her, her satisfaction sending shivers into his body while she rode herself against him as she came.

Bane sniffed out an exasperated breath as he stared at Camille, and wondered how one woman could be so infuriating as his eyes moved along her skin.

He couldn't sleep. His longing for Talia sent grief raking through him, missing her and hating her for haunting him with memories of their life together ever since he'd been locked up in that horrible asylum. He wanted her back. He wanted to forget her. He wanted her here with him now, instead of simple memories of her that were plaguing him. And sometimes, on nights like these when he craved her the most, he wished she'd never existed in the first place.

But she had existed, and he wanted her to return to him.

Bane set his gaze on Camille's lower back. As quiet as the shadows that consumed the room, he reached out and placed his fingertips on the base of her spine. Slowly, he moved his hand up, following the bone and feeling the skin that was always taunting him one way or another. He stilled his hand once she began to stir, and didn't move it as she stretched like a cat and sleepily rolled onto her back. She let out a breath so the curls in her face would fall away and placed her hands above her head. The only clothing she wore was the tank top and her panties, her breasts falling and rising with every steady breath she took in sleep. Bane hadn't removed his hand when she'd turned, and was now touching her stomach. He looked at her thigh and the healing cut that marked her skin, wondered if she would flinch if he touched her there too. Slowly, so very slowly, he continued moving his fingertips up her body. They travelled from her bare stomach to the valley between her breasts and up to her neck, ending on her face. Touching her now as she slept didn't seem as private now that he knew what it was to have her body. And because he felt this was some kind of twisted revenge for how she'd touched him earlier, he didn't care.

His fingertips stilled on her cheek as she turned her face towards him. Her lips had stained dark purple from her lipstick, making her look more like the woman he'd first gotten to know. And then, because she was always _moving_ in her sleep, her hand rose up to softly touch his, and press his palm onto her cheek. Those stained lips opened just a little as she continued to sleep, continued to breathe, continued to annoy him.

Infuriating woman, he thought again, and wondered why exactly she had been the one to remind him of Talia.

_We pave our own path. We choose our own destinies._

He'd said that to Camille once, a long time ago when they would have session. He still believed it, made himself still believe it. He didn't like the idea of a pre-planned destiny. He wanted to be the master of his own fate. Certain things had to be done, and sometimes God took too long to do what was necessary. But maybe, when concerning certain things and certain people, some things _were _connected. Maybe some things were just answers to bothersome questions. Maybe certain things, confusing things, had a purpose.

Thoughts and realizations suddenly came to his mind. He thought of his dream. He thought of Talia, of her lovely feminine curves, exotic complexion, and fiery spirit. And then he focused on Camille, and how she'd reminded him of his love earlier in the evening. He stared at Camille, so many thoughts running through his brain and all centering around Talia as he looked his doctor over completely, his eyes glazing over from something unknown. He started at Camille's feet – because she could never keep a blanket on her to save her life – and worked his way up her body, eyeing all the similarities. He looked at her dark hair, at the Italian features she carried, and remembered the little spark of something deep inside her that she was beginning to find again. A little spark… of fire.

He didn't think he was dreaming this way of Talia for nothing now. He wanted her back, and discovered that there could be a way to accomplish that. His eyes glittered in realization and anticipation.

Ra's al Ghul had wanted immortality, and always said there were many forms into getting it. The same could go for his daughter.

Bane stared intensely at Camille as she slept, continuing to hold her face because she kept his hand there with her own, and knew that change would happen. Camille was there for him in more ways than one. She could become something great. She could become something dangerous, just like Talia had been. He retracted his hand and took a couple steps back, watching as his doctor moved once more and return onto her stomach. His eyes darkened as he made his decision.

Bane would have his Talia back with him again. She would just come in a slightly different form.

**TBC**

**A/N: Few things to address here. First, Camille will not, in any way, shape, or form, end up with John Blake. I would never pair her with him, ever. This is a Bane story, and will continue to stay that way. It was just an interesting thought. So everyone who thought I would change the course of this story can rest easy. This story has been planned from beginning to end since even before the first chapter was posted. I change nothing. But it was cute to see that absolutely no one wanted her with John, haha. Secondly, I don't know much about Nightwing. And because that's the way I handled it I made him a cocky kind of guy. Someone who John Blake could be when he wasn't being John Blake. Thirdly! My very wonderful and very talented reviewer Line Sagittarius has made a drawing of Camille! She's beautiful and haunting and dark, and just right! Here's the link to copy and paste: browse. deviantart ?order = 5&q = camille# / d5ippnz **

**Hopefully that worked… Just get rid of the spaces and yadda yadda. And concerning the last scene in this chapter, don't worry about anything mystical and magical to happen. This is still a reality based story, just like the movies. The psychology of people is complex, and that is all I'll say on the matter. And so, as always, review for me, my darlings! **


	17. Dead to the World

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 17**

**Dead to the World**

"_Heaven Queen, carry me away from all pain. All the same, take me away. We're dead to the world." – Nightwish_

Life was never a promise to happiness. Things go wrong and people die. And when they die, nothing is ever the same again. Choices had long ago been made, words already said forever ago and can never be taken back. Pain was experienced, paths were travelled. We chose what we did and what we said. Sometimes those choices came not without regret, and not without suffering. But there was no escape. And the only thing that could be done was to accept. Accept your regret, accept your suffering. Nothing is the same because your person is gone, and all you can do is grieve and wish and want. Your rope has been cut, your lifeline has been severed, your heart has been broken. Your redemption is no more.

Acceptance, Bane realized, was very cruel indeed.

There could be no hope for him now. He'd had to deny it, ignore it so he could escape from his wretched prison in Arkham Asylum, pretend the hopelessness didn't exist so he could function. Learning of Talia's death had done that, had caused that. His treasured innocence was lost, his precious freedom taken away because there were powers in this world who believed in the code of protection, in the good in people that was most often buried under hatred and despair and selfishness. To accept what had happened to her was to grieve, to break, to become undone. To regret and to suffer. It would be his most crippling weakness.

Life could not promise you happiness, or contentment. But change could.

Acceptance was a matter of choice. Talia may be gone, but she could remain here, with him, different yet the same. And if there was a way, and he'd already found one, then acceptance was something he would not choose.

Camille did not belong to herself anymore. She became his the moment she signed on to treat him. The choices she'd made, the scars along her body, had been the result of her owning herself. She'd marred her skin, she'd numbed herself with pills, she'd let herself succumb to the wishes of people like her mother and ex-husband. All results of a life full of failure. To belong to herself was now a lost privilege. But he would help her succeed. He would mold her into something better, something great. Bane could break the spirit and body of anyone who walked the earth. He proved that when he had fractured the Batman's spine. And because he could break, he could also restore. He could fix her. He could change her.

Talia could live another life. And he could be given back the innocence he had once held and rocked to sleep. He could feel free of the grief, of the pain, of the hopelessness. He could have his redemption, and be the man to bring balance back to a very unbalanced world.

Camille was there for him. She'd been there for him since the moment he'd been sentenced to a house of insanity. And she would be perfect. Why else was she showing up in his dreams, taking the place of Talia in his mind?

Because Talia was meant to come back.

Ra's al Ghul had survived through Talia. Talia would survive through Camille. All is connected, and no one can change by themselves.

It was the only thing he _could_ accept.

* * *

Camille sighed as she sat on the floor of her room, wrestling with a large cardboard box that was excessively taped and almost impossible to open. She didn't have any scissors, or anything else along the lines of sharp. And she was getting annoyed.

Bane's men had delivered more supplies to her today since she'd been running out. She knew the box held the glass vials that would contain Bane's most important ingredients that made up his analgesics, the painkillers that would be combined to soothe him. And next to her, delivered at a different time because it was a totally different ingredient altogether, was the small bag of cocaine that she would add just a pinch of to the canisters that would be inserted into the back of his mask.

Camille had never dealt with drugs of that sort before. And discovered that it was pretty easy to handle.

She blew a lock of black hair out of her eyes before trying once again to get the cardboard to open so she could put her supplies away properly. She hated when her room would be in disarray. Just looking down at the cocaine, seeing it on the floor when it should be on her work table was making her chest feel tight. The big box in her room was taking up space and not supposed to be there, because big boxes didn't belong in bedrooms. She looked over, and instantly felt the need to pick her jacket up off the floor since it had slid off her bed moments earlier.

And when she realized how she was feeling, thinking, and acting, she discovered that her anxiety level was unusually high today.

She put a hand to her chest and forced herself to take a very big, very relaxing breath. She knew she suffered from anxiety for the last several years. She knew simple, meaningless things like traffic, disorder, and left opened cabinets could make it spike. But it had always been something she lived with. Tons of people had anxiety. She was no different from the average American woman.

Her Lexapro had helped with it. And because she hadn't taken her depression medication in a very long time, she could only assume that her anxiety today had something to do with that. But it would be fine, she told herself. Her body was still getting used to being without the pills that had been her lifeline when cutting herself had no longer been an option. And she would adjust.

She hoped she adjusted.

Camille stretched back her shoulders and wondered how much longer this life would be forced on her.

Would Bane ever replace her? And if he did, what would he do with her? Camille had accepted the fact that he would probably kill her if he were to ever want someone to care for him other than herself. And oddly, she was okay with it. It wasn't like she had a family who was worrying about her while she was kept here. She didn't have any children who were depending on her to raise them. And the husband she once had had moved on years ago. She had no friends, and the career she'd made the center of her life had already been on the rocks from clashing with Dr. Arkham one too many times.

If she was honest with herself, the only thing she did have was Bane. And once he was done with her, she would have absolutely nothing.

And while thinking of that one thing, she wondered what had become of her life when the only thing she had to live for was caring for the man who had kidnapped her, the man who had once enslaved them all.

But she couldn't think about that right now, she told herself as she felt her leg start to annoyingly shake and her fingertips drum along the floor of her room from anxiety. She would block that thought out along with knowing that she had let that same man touch her intimately.

Camille knew she was a mature woman. And now, because she'd slept with Bane, she now knew what it was like to have no-strings-attached sex. Yes, the man of choice hadn't been ideal in society's standards, but who cared at this point? Her life was already a wreck. What did it matter if sex with a murdering liberator was added onto the list? Sex with Jackson was easy to accept from all point of views because they'd been married and had loved each other, once upon a time. Sex with Bane was a one-time thing, and something new. Twisted, but new.

And soon, if she ever made it past this situation, there would be another man after Bane. Camille knew she didn't have it in her to love again. She was still in the process of fighting off old feelings for Jackson. But she couldn't let Bane's hands be the last ones to touch her. And just like Jackson, her patient would have to be replaced too. Eventually.

Camille looked down at her hands, and saw the slight tremor running through them. She put one shaking palm onto her heart, felt it beating a little too fast for her liking, and wondered if she should give in and take one of her depression pills. She didn't want to, but she had to calm down. She had to relax. The pills had stopped it before, but she wanted to be free of them.

_The day you choose to live is the day you will be free from those pills. _

Bane had said that to her once. And she was so tired of feeling like she was dying.

She looked at the still horribly taped cardboard box, decided she hated it, and frantically tried ripping it open.

Bane came in then, carelessly tapping the broken door for it to swing open, and found her in a deep struggle. She looked behind her, and took another breath to try and release the irritation.

She smoothed down her black tights to regain composure and sighed. "I can't get this open."

She watched him approach her in his army pants and brown armored vest, eyeing the scratches along his shoulder that were already fading nicely after she'd cleaned them up a couple of days ago. She didn't know why he was here now. She guessed maybe he heard her struggling. Bane stared down at the little bag of cocaine next to her leg. She instantly picked it up and placed it upon her work table for safety. And because she felt like she had to do something as he watched her.

"Will you open that for me?" she asked him absently. When he remained silent and still, she looked at him, noticed that he was still staring at her. Camille lifted a brow in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"Flex," he answered simply, and waited.

Camille blinked and shifted some on her bare feet. "What?"

"Flex your arms. Let me see your strength."

She stood still, remaining silent and only listening to the sound of him breathing into his mask. Her eyes instantly went to his own arms, and the muscles that seemed to protrude from his skin. "What, are we going to compare? What's wrong?" she asked again.

Bane walked over to her, lifted one of her arms and felt the bicep. She went to move away, but he took hold of her forearm, gripping it so she would remain exactly where he wanted her. He wasn't hurting her, but he was confusing her as he inspected. "You've toned your arms in the past, but they are lacking. You've neglected physical activity." Before she could comment, he spun her around and squeezed her shoulders, carefully probing her back muscles over her t-shirt. "You have potential to become stronger. You should never allow your body to weaken. If your body becomes weak, then your mind soon follows. Your enemies will be able to smell weakness like ravenous dogs. Do not give them that satisfaction."

Camille grimaced as she brushed his hands away, and spun back around. "I don't know what you're talking about. Just open the box so you can leave me alone."

He seemed to ignore her. Calmly, he asked, "Have you ever been in a fight before?"

Camille narrowed her eyes, trying to read him. But she was rusty when it came to reading people in a professional sense. She'd been kept here under Bane's orders for a very long time, and had pushed her training to the back of her mind. She couldn't continue to be the professional and the suffering woman at the same time during her stay with him. She hadn't had the strength. And now, she felt like she needed that knowledge more than ever. But because she didn't know what else to say, she answered him simply. "No."

She watched Bane shake his head, almost as if he were scolding her. "You must always know how to defend yourself. If someone tries to hurt you, you hurt them more excessively. If they throw a rock, then you must throw a knife." He stepped closer to her, and softly took her jaw into his hand. Camille could only stare at him, puzzled and without words. "If someone tries to hurt you, then you stab them in the heart. There is no room for uncertainty, no room for compassion. You hurt them back, and you feel proud. You relish in the fact that once they die, then they can never hurt you again. Do you understand?"

He looked so unmovable, so sure and confident that she once again didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say. She'd never known him to be so inconsistent. And she'd never known him to be so confusing. Bane was a man who was set in his ways, who always knew his next move, who always got his point across like he was conversing with morons. Why now was he acting so strange? And because she was so uncertain on how she should answer him or if she even should, she could only nod into his hand, and give him the satisfaction that she'd heard him.

He smiled at her then, seeming to ignore the confusion she knew was evident on her face. She watched as his gaze dropped to her lips, to the petal pink color that coated them. Bane lifted his thumb and skimmed it over her lips, smearing the pink off and onto his finger. Her eyes widened a little in shock and some anger that he would dare to ruin her precious lipstick. But when she saw his eyes, how distant they were, yet focused on something she didn't know, she relented from backing away and scolding him. Instead, she tried once again to read him.

A second later he moved away. He left her room right after he easily ripped open the box for her, leaving her there standing awkwardly with smeared lipstick and a lesson on killing an enemy she didn't even have in her mind.

She looked to the broken door he'd exited through, and then reached for her small makeup bag to reapply color to her now bare lips.

* * *

Camille thought her anxiety had been high the day Bane had been acting so strange with her. She now knew that it was nothing compared to how it had soared as the days went on. Her body wanted its usual release with her depression pills. But she didn't give in. And what made it all worse was that Bane had not calmed down from acting so peculiar around her.

She felt like he was a completely different person.

Every day he would tell her of horrible things about human nature. And every day he would make certain that she understood him and had heard him clearly. She didn't ask him why he was telling her these things, why he was acting this way. He looked so determined and so inflexible that she could only nod in puzzled agreement. She didn't question him because she didn't exactly know how to. He seemed to be content with her simple nod, and almost… happy.

Maybe he was lonely? Maybe he was chatty because of some new strange side-effect of his medicine? But Camille had checked everything properly to make sure that one painkiller hadn't been added more or been given less to his canisters. And she knew for certain that she was putting the right amount of cocaine into the finished product. She'd checked the measuring tube three times before squeezing it in.

And since there was just no reason that she could think of for his behavior, she let it go and continued to listen to him. Until one day he started talking to her about her own past, and what she should have done.

"Look at how this city has treated you, Camille. You were being severely abused at home, domestic violence was constant, and Child Services did nothing to help you. They should have taken you and your brothers away but instead, they just ignored you. Left you to suffer and cut your skin. They turned their backs on a teenager who was forced to take care of a family who didn't even want her."

She'd been holding the mask to his face after she'd unlatched it so that he could breathe in the last remaining gas before she quickly changed it. She could only draw her brows together and realize that things had changed. Instead of circumstances, the conversations had been turned onto herself, and how cruel life had been to her. And he wouldn't stop.

"This city hates you. This _world_ hates you, and me. You know Gotham deserves to burn. The lives here are corrupt and insufferable. Redemption is far from them. But you are different. You understand those things, and in knowing that you rise above them. You are above this contaminated city, above this unbalanced world. Just like me. And the ones who are above are the ones who are meant to punish, to bring true justice, and to annihilate all the meaningless lives that do nothing but take up space. Your pain from your past has become your redemption. Because now… you understand."

Camille hadn't known how to answer him. She could only look into his very focused eyes, holding the mouthpiece of his mask against him, and know that everything he said was true. The city _had_ forgotten her when she had been young, when she needed the system to take her away. Gotham was unredeemable, she knew that. Nothing could truly save this place, just as nothing could truly destroy it. She knew all those things, and really did understand.

But because there was something else going on here, something she couldn't quite grasp just yet, she hadn't fed in to his words, and only did the job she was here to do.

But it didn't stop there.

Bane was always bringing up her past, her time with her family and with Jackson, almost like he was trying to explain to her how wronged she'd been, how cruel she'd been treated. It started becoming so frequent that Camille just let it flow in one ear and out the other. She'd experienced those things, had dealt with it to the point of medication, so it wasn't like she couldn't handle his words. She lived with knowing what happened to her every day of her life. Bane trying to make her understand something she was already full aware of was just wasted breath on his part. He was annoying her, but she let him ramble on, giving him the nods he looked for every time, the assurance. It had just become routine.

Until one day, he changed again. One day, he came at her with the intent to attack, telling her she had to defend herself if she wanted to remain unharmed.

"What the _hell_ are you doing? What's wrong with you?"

"Cowards back away," he told her, stomping closer to her with heat in his eyes and his hands fisted. "Warriors fight to the death. You must think of yourself as a warrior. Even if you are unmatched you fight because you _have_ to, to stay alive."

He was too quick for her. One second she was far away from him, and the next he was standing toe to toe with her. Bane raised his arm and swung at her. She watched him grin proudly when she quickly ducked and covered her head with her arms.

"Good! Blocking is to your advantage. But only if you attack with full force within the next second."

They continued to spar for the next few minutes, Camille only allowing it because she didn't want to get hit. Bane would try to strike her or grab her, and she would use every quick defense instinct she had in her to get out of the way. Bane would scold her when she refused to attack him as well, and would continue all over again. But her anxiety was not helping with the situation. It was making it worse for her, and sending it soaring more than it already was. When she started panting from a racing heartbeat, she screamed at him to stop.

He didn't listen. And when he raised his arm at her, she stood still and let him grab her by the neck with lightning speed.

Bane shook his head at her. "If you and I were truly quarreling you would be dead right now."

Camille noticed that he barely used a fraction of his strength when he'd taken her neck. He lightly held his hand around her throat, not even hard enough for her to have trouble breathing or swallowing. And because it was neither uncomfortable nor painful, she stood where she was, and looked at him intensely, trying, trying to figure out what was going on with him, why he was treating her…so differently.

"Bane," she murmured to him, setting her hands softly on his forearm. "Tell me what's wrong."

She felt his hand loosen even more, his fingers softly brushing over her skin as he held her neck. He was still looking at her, but she could tell his mind was a million miles away, thinking of something, thinking of the thing she couldn't quite figure out. The reason for all of this. He answered her softly.

"Nothing is wrong. Everything is as it should be."

No, she thought, and pulled his hand away. Something was terribly wrong. And now, she didn't think she wanted to find out what exactly it was that was on his mind.

* * *

It was the next evening, and Camille sat on her bed, taking big, deep breaths so that her heart would flutter down to a normal speed and that her shaking hands would calm. The anxiety was the worse it had been yet. She'd had times like these before, in the past, and knew that when it was this bad, it would simply go away shortly after until the next time. But hopefully, there wouldn't be a next time because she had gotten rid of the man-made solution that would keep it away. Her pills sat on the dresser, staring at her, seeming to laugh at her and telling her that she couldn't survive without them.

But she could. She would know what it was like to live, without them.

Camille rubbed her hands through her black curls and knew she had to get it together before Bane showed up. She was changing his canisters today, not because they were low, but because one of them had broken and was leaking medicine in its liquid form through the tubes inside his mask. His medicine wasn't meant to be taken that way, and had to be fixed as soon as possible. But before she made any move to gather her supplies, she looked down onto her mattress and stared at the cause of her spiked anxiety.

Camille had thought that since she'd been taken by Bane, the threatening letters against her would have obviously stopped. No one knew where Bane was, and no one knew where he'd taken her. She could have been long dead for all the citizens of Gotham knew. But sitting next to her now, making her shudder not from the words but because it was even here in the first place, was yet another note. It had been left on her bed when she'd left her bedroom earlier, and held its usual demand and threat.

_You should have killed him when you had the chance, Dr. Lane. Now you have become his slave. Now you have become his whore, allowing the monster to fuck you. Blinding you. You forgot about us. But we haven't given up on you yet. If you continue to ignore us, we will finally act. And then, even Bane won't be able to keep you safe. One last chance. Make it count. _

Camille glared at the note and picked it up to rip it to shreds.

She thought maybe she should feel afraid. Receiving this note today told her that whoever was sending them to her was disguised inside Bane's army of mercenaries, or one of the partners she knew their operation collaborated with. Someone with access to their location, someone who knew where she slept. Someone who knew about the night she had let Bane touch her. But she wasn't afraid. She was angry. And even if she was to be punished, if whoever sending her the letters would finally grow up and come out of hiding, she still would not submit to something so stupid and do what they wanted. As of right now, she was too valuable to Bane, and knew that whoever was foolish enough to take him on knew that as well. It would be hard for them to get to her. And when they did, she would do nothing but expose them.

It was a cowardly thing, she decided, to try and frighten her with simple words. Threats meant nothing when all she ever saw of it was a continuous piece of paper.

She thought maybe she should tell Bane. But ultimately decided that she didn't want to involve him in her life any more than he already was.

Camille threw away the pieces of torn paper into the trash can and smoothed down the skirt of her long navy blue dress – since she'd obviously grabbed more dresses than anything else when she'd had to pack back in her apartment. She tousled her hair some, smacked her coral colored lips together, and willed her hands to stop shaking. She didn't want Bane to notice. She didn't want him to question her and think that she wasn't taking care of herself again. She was trying her best, without the help of her pills or the release of a knife.

She heard Bane enter her room, turned her head to see him wearing a pair of black pants and a brown t-shirt. He looked at her for a moment, then sauntered over to the chair she'd set out for him. He remained quiet, which she was thankful for, and waited for her to take one more deep breath before she went over to the work table and picked up the new canisters she would insert into the back of his mask. Camille walked behind him, holding the medicine to her chest in fear that she would drop them. As quickly as she could, she unlatched the old canisters and popped in the new ones, hopefully with the least amount of pain for him. When she saw that he was fine, she went to replace the old canisters onto the table.

One slipped from her trembling hand and onto the floor, breaking on impact.

"Shit!" she hissed, and let out an angered sigh, rolled her eyes. She cursed under her breath and cleaned the mess, muttering, and tossed the other canisters harshly into the trash along with the broken one.

"Is something wrong?" Bane asked her.

"No," she snipped, and then sighed again, rubbing her hands on her face. "I've just been a little… anxious for the last few days. I think it's from being without the pills for so long."

Camille walked over to her work table to stand in front of it, hugging her arms and wishing her heart would beat normally, wishing her hands would stop shaking. She didn't hear Bane rise from the chair, didn't notice him at all until she could feel him standing directly behind her. She wondered what strange words or actions he had in store for her today. She was just about to tell him she wasn't in the mood for any of it. It was the last thing she wanted to deal with right now. But he spoke first, low and deep behind her.

"Anxiety is a weakness your body doesn't know what to do with, and can only bring out the others inside you. You need to relax."

Camille gripped her arms tighter when she felt Bane softly place his hands on her hair, moving them down her curls until he came to the ends. She felt her jaw clench when he moved his fingers into her scalp, massaging her there softly and making the sensitive nerve endings there awaken. She narrowed her eyes when quick flashes of the night that was left unspoken of came to her mind. She knew she needed to tell him to stop. Something like that couldn't happen again because it had been a mistake. But when she felt him take most of her hair and brush it to the front of her shoulder to reveal her back and neck to him, she found that she couldn't utter a single word.

Bane moved his hands along her back, over the straps of her dress and down her spine. He encircled her waist before moving back up to her shoulders and down her arms, so slowly, so gently. He stepped a little closer so he could look over her shoulder at her face, watched her swallow a little hesitantly but remaining quiet all the same.

When his fingers moved back into her scalp, Camille let out the long breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She shivered, and wondered when exactly she was going to tell him to stop. She needed to tell him to stop, even though now he had moved even closer to her, even though now she could feel the intense heat of his body and the solid, hard surfaces of it behind her. Her lower stomach fluttered, her skin trembled to life, and she relaxed enough to loosen her grip on her arms, and set them calmly onto the table in front of her.

She didn't want to, but she closed her eyes. She knew that it was wrong, but she remained still. She understood that the last time he had touched her it was something that wouldn't happen again. But as his hands glided over her, felt the curls on her scalp and the skin along her back, she forgot herself completely. And started to relax. Bane must have sensed something too, sensed the way she gave in and refused to move away. His hands started moving again. This time, he would touch her where he knew she wanted to be touched, where her body needed to be touched.

She felt Bane move his hands down her back again, this time taking her waist and moving right up against her. Slowly and softly, he moved his hands up her body, ghosting them over her stomach and even over her breasts. She was still so quiet, still so motionless, allowing him to touch her. Allowing it because he could tell she needed him to.

Camille couldn't think of what was right, couldn't hold back from letting the long sigh escape past her lips. Bane moved his hands to her neck, trailing his fingers over her pulse and making her shiver again. She felt the mouthpiece of his mask bump against the side of her head, heard him breathe in the scent of her hair, letting her hear his deep breathing right by her ear as he moved his hands back over her breasts, more probing this time as he felt the design of her bra through her dress. One hand left her chest to brush aside one of the straps of her dress, but quickly returned to his gentle caressing as he moved the mouthpiece down her neck and over the top of her shoulder.

This is wrong, she told herself, but it was such a distant and insignificant little voice. She could only think one thought, a thought that didn't count the last time Bane had his hands on her body because it had oddly just been business.

It has been _so long_ since someone has touched me like this.

Camille couldn't remember the last time Jackson touched her this way. And when she'd had sex with Bane before, her body had had pleasure forced upon it. He could only touch her the way he had and slide in and out of her for so long until she started to eventually feel good. But right now was different. Right now she was being touched in a way she hadn't felt in _years_. Completely losing herself in his hands, she craved him to touch her more, needed him too, because it had been _so _long.

She felt her head droop a little as she kept her eyes closed, just feeling the movement of his hands along her chest and his breathing against her shoulder. His hands were so big, free of the braces, both hands covering her breasts and rubbing her there, making her shiver as a chill ran up her spine and her lower stomach flipped. She wanted those hands to squeeze, to press, to force her body harder against his. Instead, his hands moved away from her breasts and slid down her sides, over the lush feminine curves of her hips. Her hair fell in front of her face as he moved his hands onto her bottom, sandwiching them in between the back of her body and the front of his. Camille found herself biting her lower lip, and wished his hands to return to their previous spot as they travelled back up her spine.

Slowly, making her quiver, Bane ran his hands down her arms and onto her own hands that she'd set onto the table right in front of her. His much larger fingers travelled down the length of hers, all the way to her fingertips before moving back up and repeating the process of touching her body all over again.

Camille couldn't think right now, couldn't try and tell herself that this needed to stop. She could only feel, not analyze complexities. She could only anticipate, not feel cheap and insane for letting this man touch her again. His large, yet petting hands were on her bottom again, and Camille couldn't stop her own body from moving. She dug her nails into the table in front of her, and slowly leaned forward a little, jutting her hips out to press firmly onto his. She could feel control and rationale leaving her, with only the need for release taking their place. A part of her mind was screaming at her with some knowledge still unknown, and the other part ignoring the screams completely.

She felt Bane's body rumble with some deep sound he'd made, and felt one of those tantalizing hands softly touch her hip. Camille found herself bending her body forward even more, sighing deeply again when she felt the hard length of him through his pants against her bottom. Without realizing it, her hips bumped back against his, wishing he'd grab her hair again, waiting for him to bend her even more and feel that length where she desperately wanted to feel it.

She drew her brows together in annoyance and shook her head slightly when her mind began to yell at her to wait, wait, wait. Just think. But how could she think? She wanted hands on her, to soothe her back to calmness, to make the anxiety go away. She wanted to grip the table and be taken this way…

But her wanting was short-lived as Bane softly placed one hand back on her chest, and straightened her body, pulling her back to their original stance with her back against his chest. She slowly opened her eyes and felt her lips fall into a pout. But his hands were gently touching her again, sliding over her hips, her stomach, her breasts. Softly, gently, caressing her, soothing her, smoothing his hands with aching care across her skin and curves.

Her mind was shrieking now, a shriek so powerful that she could do nothing else but hear it.

She remembered that the hands touching her this way belonged to Bane. She kept her eyes open as she felt those hands caress her with care, with gentleness, with an almost soft caution that was suddenly so foreign. This was _Bane_…

And this was _not_ how he touched her.

Bane's hands had always been firm, hard, and demanding on her body, in anything that they did. He grabbed her, he squeezed her, he held her with a strength that would mark her skin, that would maneuver her body the way he wanted it. That would force her, demand from her, take from her. He wasn't gentle, he was rough. He wasn't soft, he was hard. He wasn't timid, he was fearless.

Bane did not touch her this way. He didn't touch her like he was now, like she was a precious piece of gold that could be marred with the wrong treatment, like she was an angel who had to be held with the greatest of care. Those touches of his, those caresses, were not for her.

But for someone else entirely.

Camille stared into the nothing ahead of her as she listened to her mind, as she took hold of the screams it tossed her way and pushed back the other, almost overpowering, sensations. Bane continued to touch her in the way he didn't normally touch her, and she began to think.

She took a deep breath as his hands softly moved down her hips again and onto her upper thighs. Slowly, she began turning her head to peak over her shoulder at him. She looked up at his face, and narrowed her eyes some when she saw that his own were closed.

She quickly moved her gaze ahead of herself again, and thought some more. She gasped softly when all the knowledge she'd been missing came flooding back to her mind, all the intelligence, all the training of the psychiatrist she'd molded herself into slamming into her again in reckless abandon. She could now think the way she'd been taught to think. She could now analyze the way she'd always known how to analyze professionally.

She felt Bane press his mask against her neck softly, breathing against her with those deep releases of air that had been driving her crazy just a few minutes earlier. But she couldn't take it in as she'd done before. She had to keep thinking before her mind left her again. She felt his hand travel down to the hem of her dress and slowly begin to lift it. She felt it, but she ignored it. Her mind was racing, racing, racing.

Bane's hand was underneath her dress now, softly brushing his fingers against the front of her panties. Camille drew her brows together and stared straight ahead.

Bane didn't touch her this way, she told herself again. She remembered security tapes from long ago, when she'd been his doctor at the asylum and he her grieving patient. She remembered his face and the tone of his voice when she brought up the one part of his past that meant everything to him. She remembered the reasons for the revolution, and why he'd almost destroyed an entire city. Bane didn't touch Camille this way. Her professional mind had been trying to tell her that all along. The way he'd been acting, the things he'd been telling her, the touches he was giving her right now. Her eyes widened when the solution came with full force.

There was only one other person in the world that Bane would touch with such care.

Camille felt his fingers move again, and slowly begin to slide inside her panties.

She quickly grasped his wrist. She squeezed it, holding it in place, before calmly removing his hand from underneath her dress. She let out a long breath, and turned around to face him, placing her hands on his chest because they were so close, and gently pushing away some so she had some space between his massive body and the table.

She swallowed when she looked up into his questioning eyes. She now knew why they'd been so distant lately, yet so focused on a matter she'd never thought of, had been so far away from. She frowned up at him, and felt sad. Not because she'd unknowingly become the vessel he truly wanted. But because he had been wishing for a ghost.

"Bane," she whispered to him, shaking her head and not able to stop the sad pity entering her eyes. "Bane… She's dead."

He blinked at her then, and she could just make out the spirit in his eyes that made him who he was. She stared at him desperately, trying to get through to him, trying to make him understand. She thought maybe she should feel anger for what he was trying to do with her. But she didn't. She was used to mind games from her patients, used to the ways they would try and steer themselves in directions they didn't think she could follow. She watched as he took one small step back from her. Camille held his gaze, wouldn't let him fool himself. She saw his eyes raking over her body, almost searching for something, and not able to find it anymore.

"She is _dead_," she whispered again, with a little more stern, and realized she hated what was happening to him, even after everything he'd done to her.

His unwavering gaze landed back onto hers. His next words almost broke her heart.

"She doesn't have to be," he murmured back to her, and simply stared.

Camille shook her head again at him, and couldn't decide if he was staring at _her_, or at the ghost he was confusing her with.

Barsad entered the room then, telling Bane they needed him.

Bane blinked again and looked over to his second in command. He took a deep breath, gave Barsad a nod, and waited for him to leave before he gazed back at Camille.

She had taken some of the skirt to her dress tightly in her hands, holding it against her thighs and staring at him, almost like she wanted to tell him more things that he just could not accept right now. And before she could, before she could utter those words again, he left.

Camille watched him leave, and put her face into her hand.

She would not become Talia al Ghul for him. And if he continued to act like she was, he would be in for a very rude awakening.

* * *

Projective identification. Camille had seen it before, treated it before in some of the Level One patients who would be admitted in Arkham Asylum. And while she'd never dealt with any radical cases, she could spot it when she would get up close and personal.

She'd definitely been up close and personal with Bane.

When someone would expel or lose a relationship that had been a constant in their life, they could tend to force that same relationship onto another person if certain emotions hadn't been dealt with properly. Projective identification was mostly used to project certain qualities into another person so that they became a part of that person. The one who would grieve would then be able to identify with that other person, and be given the means to control them, to care for them, to love them because their heart had become damaged with the death of the one who had meant everything.

Bane wanted Talia to come back. And because she was now the closest female to him, Camille was the only choice to make that happen.

Camille knew, when concerning projective identification, that the person being projected _into_ may consequently be pressured to behave accordingly with the projected phantasy, believing and accepting the new life that would be forced upon them. She knew that the projecting person would, in some cases, seek to be physically close to the person into whom the phantasy was projected.

Bane had tried to pretend that the body he'd been touching was Talia instead of her. And he had also been trying to mold her into the kind of person his love had been, even going so far as to using her own past against her. He had tried expressing unconscious hope for an internal change that wouldn't happen, because Camille knew how to play the game.

Again, she thought she should be angry. Instead, she was prepared, and could understand because she'd been trained to understand.

Camille also knew that something like this would happen when the previous relationship had been very much dysfunctional, and because of occurring internal struggles.

Bane wanted her to become Talia because he had not fully dealt with her death, had not fully grasped the kind of relationship they'd really had. And, because somewhere inside him, maybe he really wanted Camille, and couldn't accept that fact so soon after Talia's death.

Yes, Camille thought, she could understand. People went through issues like this every single day. She had her fair share of internal dysfunctions.

But even if she could understand, she knew that it would stop.

Talia al Ghul, as she knew from Bane's file and the security tape she'd seen, had not been right in the head. She'd been smart, she'd been calculating, and she'd very much been deceiving. But deep within her had been an insanity that Bane hadn't seen, couldn't see because she had used his affections to her advantage, had used his strength and his mind to further a twisted revenge scheme that hadn't worked in the end. But because of their past, because of his feelings, he could only see the innocent little girl who he'd protected with his life, and then eventually the woman who had charmed him with her beauty and that same innocence he felt somehow redeemed him. Talia may have died trying to kill a million lives, but she was still very much alive inside the man she had used, the man she had said she loved.

Camille would not become that person.

She was a psychiatrist, and therefore hated what was happening to Bane. But she had so many things she had to work out within herself. She was just as dysfunctional as he was. She didn't know if she had the strength to fight a ghost who had way more leverage than she ever could. Talia's hold on Bane was something she didn't think she could fight, because she could very well lose.

But when it came to how he would treat _her_ from here on out, she would fight that. She would not let the shadow of a psychopath ruin her, change her. She would not be touched as another woman.

And being touched at all by him brought about a whole different set of issues concerning their very odd, distorted relationship.

Camille didn't want Bane. She had to keep telling herself that, reminding herself that she couldn't be so twisted in the head as to want someone like him. To think that she wanted Bane made her wonder if something was wrong inside her mind too. And to feel like there was something not quite right in her head made her feel like her mother.

She would rather die than end up just like her mother.

And to make all those thoughts go away, so she didn't feel as if there were any kind of traits inside her of the woman who'd given birth to her, Camille told herself that the only reason she had responded to him the way she had was because her body had been reunited with the act of physical coupling again, and was craving for more after years of remaining untouched. But she'd been able to fight off the temptations of human nature for so long, and could continue to do so.

She just… had to be more careful.

Camille stared into the mirror in her room and rubbed her rose pink lips together. "I don't want Bane," she said to her reflection, and gave herself a brisk nod before leaving the room to go to the broken down common's area where the books were.

On the way, she pulled her black sweater over an army green tank top, and wondered how cold it was outside, especially now when it was dark. The season had changed. It was now the beginning of winter, and Gotham was known for having brutal winters. She wondered if it had snowed yet. It felt like so long since she had breathed in fresh air, or seen the sky.

She thought back to the notes that were left for her, and wondered if she would ever see the outside of this place again.

After picking up the book she'd been trying to finish for days, Camille flipped through the dusty pages until she found the one she'd marked. She pulled up the somewhat clean chair she always sat in, and began to read.

An hour went by, and when she heard the thump of a familiar pair of boots approach closer to her, she casually flipped the page and continued on. She hadn't spoken to Bane in a while, mostly because she hadn't seen him. The changing of his medicine was becoming less and less frequent, since his body was adjusting again and learning to constantly be with the painkillers once more. He still had yet to replace her. And because she was still considered a captive, she hadn't been able to leave the underground complex since the first day he'd brought her here. Reading on, she ignored him, even when she felt him stand at her side. He spoke when she refused to acknowledge him, keeping her focused eyes on the book in front of her.

"Camille," he said, and waited until she finally looked up at him.

"You need food?" she asked, knowing that he would need her to give him morphine so he could nourish his body as painlessly as possible. He nodded at her. "I think I'm going to teach you how to do it yourself so you don't have to come find me every time you get hungry. Which is all the time."

"Then I would not have many reasons to keep you around, would I?"

She looked up at him, and wondered if he was finally seeing her for who she was again, and not who she could be. It would be one less thing she would have to deal with. One less thing she would have to fight. She sighed and closed her book after marking the page. Camille stood to stretch her back as Bane lifted the novel, saw that she had been trying to finish _The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo_.

"Do you like it?" he asked her, tossing the book back onto the chair and removing his leather jacket over his plain black shirt.

Camille nodded.

"A story of survival…and corruption."

She turned her head to stare at him then, saw him looking right back. She said nothing, hoped he would remain silent too. She didn't want this. She didn't want to see his eyes go back to seeing something that wasn't there, trying to change her into a person that didn't exist anymore. But the way he was looking at her, the same way he had been watching her for _days_, was in his green eyes now. She could see it clearly, was able to see it now that she was thinking like the professional again. And God, she didn't want this. She thought maybe she should distract him. She didn't want to fight, didn't want to defend herself. She just wanted him to leave her alone. But her wants meant nothing when he spoke next, spoke low and with purpose.

"Corruption can begin at such an early age." He stepped closer to her, that same glint in his eye, that same sliver of hope and determination. "The children who suffer today with be the monsters who inflict suffering tomorrow. Did you know that, Camille?"

And there it was, she thought as she felt her fists clench and the overwhelmingly hot anger ignite inside her. Here was the fury she thought she should be feeling. She thought maybe it could be helped, thought maybe her understanding as a professional could overcome the exasperation. But now that he was speaking of her past again, hoping to use it as a vessel for her to change and reform, she couldn't control her sudden resentment, the blinding animosity. She glared at him then, with her clenched fists and her temper boiling.

Enough was enough.

"Do you think I'm stupid, Bane?" she muttered, her voice low and irritated. And finished. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You think I don't know that you're projecting? Of _course_ I know, damn you. I'm a fucking psychiatrist!"

She watched him blink, almost like he wanted to approach this sudden change in her differently. He should have stayed quiet, she thought. He should have put himself together and spared himself of the very harsh truths she would tell him. But she was done. And he answered her in the worst possible way.

"A proper lady shouldn't use such crude language."

Her eyes widened. Understanding had long since left. Only anger remained. And she was lost to it.

"You need to cut this _bullshit_ out right now. That woman is _dead_, Bane. I can forgive you for what happened before, because I know how hard it is to lose someone. But I will _never_ be like Talia. And do you want to know why? Because that woman was _psychotic_." Camille spat out the word, hoping it had as much an effect on him as it did to say it. She would say these things to him because they needed to be said. He had to know what his beloved relationship had really been. "I've seen her, Bane. I've seen security footage of you two. And would you like to hear my professional opinion? That lady went crazy since the first moment she escaped from the pit. She went mad the moment she _left you_ to die for her."

She saw it then, that little shimmer in his eyes that changed from seeing something that wasn't there, to fully seeing _her_, and finally listening to what she had to say. His face became emotionless, his eyes staring as he heard of the past that had kept him going, kept Talia from truly dying.

"I know you loved her, Bane," she said harshly, no compassion in her voice, no unyielding pity. Not anymore. "I know you died for her. But what makes it so bad is that you lived for her. And she _never _felt the same way. Do you hear me? She _did not_ love you!"

Bane sucked in a deep breath then, and slowly began to see red. Anger enveloped him as much as it did her now, tearing through him and heating his insides, boiling into a rage that only ended in death. It simmered, because she wasn't yet done.

"You told me that she belonged to you. And that was the biggest lie you ever told me. _Stop _trying to fool yourself, and accept what was truly happening. You were a pawn. You were the perfection she needed to make herself complete. I saw the way her eyes looked at you on the tape, Bane. And the only thing they held concerning you was the word _mine_!"

He was glaring at her now, in a way she'd never seen before. She heard his deep breathing, heard the fury and the anger with every breath he took, with the continuous expression of pure hatred on his face. His massive fists had clenched, his eyes held enough heat to melt her. And yet, she couldn't stop.

Camille stared at him, and laughed at little as she realized all the similarities they had with each other. The two suckers. What fools they were.

"This conversation is starting to sound awfully familiar, isn't it?" She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Let me just rework the words a little bit. You think that she loved you? Yeah, she loved you. Loved you enough to watch you _die_ for her pathetic revenge scheme. What kind of person asks something like that of their lover, Bane? Especially since you two were so _spiritually committed_ to each other. Isn't that what you said? She went crazy as soon as she got out of that prison. And you were just the one she chose to assist her in her madness. That is _not _how a relationship works. That is _not_ love. I wouldn't have done that to you, Bane. I would never ask you to _die_ for me."

More fury gushed inside her then. So much heat, so much anger, that she stomped up to him, felt his own rage rising and didn't care, didn't cower under the violent glower he was giving her. He was so much taller than she was, but it didn't stop her from rising onto the tips of her toes and shouting at him.

"I am _not_ Talia!"

"Trust me," he answered, his voice growling and holding a furious insult. "I know that for certain."

"And I've come to realize that you and I are very much alike," she continued, holding her ground and refusing to back off as he seethed with pure rage, his eyes widening with unyielding fury. "Because we were both so _desperately_ in love with someone who never felt even a _fraction_ of what we did! You think Talia felt the same way about you? You were nothing more to her than her great protector. _Her most precious tool_."

His hand collided with her face in a hard hit that had Camille dropping to the floor.

There was nothing but silence then, save for his heavy breathing and the soft hum of the wasted air conditioner. Bane looked down with wide, angry eyes at Camille's unconscious body, her hair covering the face he had smacked and her limbs as lifeless as the dead. He was so angry he could almost feel himself shaking. But when the silence finally got to him, when he realized that she wasn't saying those things to him anymore because he had hit her to the point of that unconsciousness, he slowly looked down at the hand that had struck her, and saw strands of her black curls entwined through his fingers from the impact. He stared at them, ran them through his fingers.

She shouldn't have said those things, he thought. She shouldn't have shouted at him, shouldn't have argued with him. Now she was hurt.

He had hurt Camille.

* * *

Camille gasped in a deep breath and squealed a little as she felt the scorching pain engulfing the right side of her face, pulling her out of the black and back into the horrible awareness of reality. Her arms jolted a little as she lifted them, and groaned when the pain travelled from her face to the back of her head and behind her eye. She realized that she was lying on her side, facing the familiar wall of her room and on the sheets of her own bed. With a shaking hand she reached to touch the side of her face that was screaming in agony, whimpered some when she felt the swelling and the heat from her injured skin. She jumped a little when a much larger hand carefully took her wrist, and pried her probing fingers away.

"Don't touch," she heard Bane murmur to her.

She had promised herself she would never cry in front of him again. But as the throbbing in her face continued, she couldn't stop the tears escaping from her eyes, one of them swollen and already bruising, and running down her cheeks.

"What did you do?" she whimpered, moaning some when the throbbing only got worse now that she was crying. "You hurt me…"

Bane watched as she cried, sitting on the side of her bed, leaning over her, and holding her wandering hand back from touching herself. He eyed the right side of her face, the face he had hit in his fury and her unrelenting words. She was red from a little swelling on her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth, and her eye. Her eye was already black and blue, the cheekbone just beginning to follow. A small red cut about a half of an inch long had started to seep just the tiniest bit of blood at the corner of her eye. She moaned again when he gently wiped the blood away, knowing she would be in even more pain if some of it slid into her crying eyelids.

She whimpered, and made a face full of discomfort as her skin ached in terrible heat, the pain from being hit by such a strong man. And for some reason, even after how furious he'd been with her, how he had slapped her face because she had said things to him he'd never wanted to hear, she had yet to tell him to go away. For reasons he couldn't fathom, she allowed him to stay right here with her.

She needed to rest some more, but he didn't have any medication to give her. And the only pills she had were those for her depression, which wouldn't soothe her now. She moaned again, and went to touch her face in reflex, but was restricted by his soft grip around her wrist. She wouldn't be able to sleep without any kind of medicine. She was hurting too much, he told himself. Bane reached with his other hand to the curls that were bothering her aching face. Softly, he brushed them back from her forehead, the slightly damp strands of black hair that had gotten mixed up in the tears falling from her eyes.

_You hurt me_, she had said to him.

With a deep breath, Bane lifted both hands and placed them on the latches of his mask. He heard the soft clicks, the releases of the metal that was his only comfort. He wouldn't give her the depression pills that would do nothing for her now. But he could help kill the pain so she could sleep. With one last very deep breath of the gas that was really only meant for him, Bane removed the mask from his face, and placed the mouthpiece over Camille's lips.

He held the back of her head with his other hand as her eyes snapped open, her body jumping from the sudden introduction of such intense medicine to her system. Bane held the mouthpiece against her, making the painkillers travel inside her and soothe the throbbing. He heard her take short, gasping breaths as she breathed in his medicine, her hands reaching up to cover his over the mask.

Bane choked just a little as his own terrible pain began crawling up his body, tearing him apart and reminding him of worse times, times when he'd been without. Tiny needles of agony gripped his skin, his insides, his body, making him tremble some from the gripping and exhausting pangs. And when Camille started pressing his hands against her mouth further, when he saw how her eyes were almost rolling into the back of her head from all the medicine, he quickly pulled it away and placed it back where it belonged.

Camille let out a deep groan as the flow of gas was taken from her, and instantly passed out, her breathing evened and her body now still from falling into deep slumber.

Bane had slumped down onto the bed next to her, holding the mouthpiece back where he needed it, breathing in his medicine and making all the agony go away. He held it there for a few minutes before moving his arms underneath himself, readjusting it and then latching it back in place around his head. He placed one of his arms over Camille, pushing himself up and seeing that she was now fast asleep.

How did this happen? he asked himself as he stared at her injured face. How could he have lost himself for a moment, and think that he could completely change someone, just so Talia could return to him? Breakdowns like this didn't happen to someone like him. Bane did not participate in something so foolish. Whatever made him convince himself that something like this could have worked in the first place?

He'd convinced himself because he missed Talia, because he was tired of having to dream of her, only to wake up and realize that she was never coming back. It had been so foolish. It had been so unlike him.

He watched Camille sleep, and realized that she could never become the woman he'd so absurdly tried to change her into. He'd let his grief and wanting for Talia take over his mind. He'd let those weaknesses overtake him because he didn't want to accept the fact that she was never coming back. Weaknesses were not for him. He couldn't allow them to be a part of who he was. He was stronger than that.

But, he realized, finally letting himself accept what he had thought to be unacceptable, she really wasn't coming back. Talia was dead. His redemption was gone. And Camille had only been chosen because, in a strange time of loneliness and grief, he had wanted her.

Acceptance was cruel. Bane slowly ran his hand down Camille's arm and moved onto his side so he could lay next to her. She was hurt. He was slowly finding himself again.

_You and I are very much alike_, Camille had said to him.

He felt as if Talia had died all over again.

**TBC**

**A/N: To quote Bane and Camille from previous chapters, we are all screwed up, my friends. We all have our underlying issues that weaken us. In one way or another, we have traits inside us that could be seen as mentally defective. No one is an exception to the rule. Not even Bane, with all his intelligence, all his strength, all his reasoning. Thank you so much for all the reviews, my loves. Even while some of you are dealing with the effects of the hurricane. Kisses to you all, my darlings. **


	18. Come Cover Me

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 18**

**Come Cover Me**

"_Dry the rain from my beaten face. Drink the wine, the red sweet taste of mine." – Nightwish_

Bane was dreaming again. He knew he was. He could tell the difference almost expertly, the difference between reality and the otherworldly scenery of slumber, after all the dreams he'd been having since he had been locked up in the asylum. Usually his dreams were nothing more but old memories of Talia, those heart-wrenching reminders of what he had gained and then ultimately lost. But lately, and he couldn't understand why, another woman would appear there with him and Talia, suddenly _there_ in his memories, in his wishes, in his mind. Bane knew he was dreaming, and wondered where exactly Talia was.

In his dream, he found himself on the floor of what he discovered was Camille's current room, hovering over a body laying completely still, a cold, pale body shivering, enduring, and bleeding.

He'd been brought back to the night Camille had cut her leg during a nervous breakdown that had been years in the making. He was hovering over her bleeding form, watching her look back up at him with her very lost, very sad black eyes. Blood seeped down her thigh, the thigh he had uncovered so that her gash would smile up at him from her own inner defeat. But she didn't seem to care, much like she hadn't on the actual day set in reality. He was dreaming of a memory, but the memory had altered itself in the slightest way.

Bane's hands were gliding over her broken body, touching her everywhere he could reach, touching her because he had to, because she was just lying there letting him. He pulled at the dress she had worn that day so he could touch more, ran her hair through his fingers so he could feel the curls. Camille only stared up at him, her eyes impassive and defeated. And when she spoke, her voice was a soft whisper. When she spoke, she was crying, telling him the same thing she had murmured on the actual day.

"Stop touching me."

He looked down at her now very injured face, and couldn't seem to stop.

Bane woke then, was glad that the dream had vanished from him, glad that he didn't have to witness the scene before him anymore. And just like always, whenever he would have these dreams that would haunt him or make him question, he dismissed them and entered reality with relief.

He sat up, slowly because of the cracks running down his spine from sleeping so uncomfortably on Camille's very small bed with her, and looked down at the woman lying next to him.

Camille remained in the position he had put her in when he had set her on the bed before she'd woken from the pain in her face. She rested on her side, facing the wall, her body curled up in itself. Bane thought that she must have woken again sometime in the night while he'd been sleeping, even though the medicine from his mask should have kept her out for hours from the intensity, since the small blanket from her bed had been pulled up and draped over her head, covering the face he had hit in his rage. Her hair was bunched up into a messy ball over herself, and her hand gently resting over her covered head, most likely to keep the bruising he knew was there from being visible.

Bane leaned down closer to her. He noticed that her chest was not rising and falling the way it should have been. She would take a breath, and her body would remain still for a lot longer than what was normal before taking another intake of air. He reached over her body, maneuvered his hand through her arms to place his palm on her chest to feel her heartbeat, and discovered that it was beating very slowly. He scooted a little closer to her so that he could lean over her more, and removed her hand from resting over her head. He wondered if she was still sleeping when he was met with no restraint as he reached for the blanket, and began uncovering her face.

She had a black eye with a tiny red cut in the corner. More bruises covered her cheekbone, scattered here and there across her face with the redness from injury and slight inflammation. More redness spread across her jaw, the corner of her lower lip plumped from swelling. Some hair was matted to her temple and underneath her eye, no doubt from the dried tears she had cried from the pain. Bane gently touched the other side of her jaw and turned her face towards his so he could inspect some more, and was taken slightly aback when he saw that her other eye, uninjured and absent of bruises, was open and now staring at him. He felt her body take another slow breath, and the few seconds that would pass before she would take another. Slowly, and a little clumsily, her hand reached up to touch his wrist that held her jaw. Her slow fingers curled around him, and stayed there.

Bane knew she didn't seem like herself. The eye that hadn't been hit was glassy, unfocused, and wandering every now and then. She would stare at him, and then look at nothing, almost searching, before going back to him. The hand she had curled around his wrist would drop in weakness before replacing it back upon his skin, her touch so soft and so clumsy that she just couldn't make any kind of grip. Bane realized that she was very drowsy and not breathing well at all.

He knew that those were all side-effects to painkillers too intense for the body to handle.

He had wanted to take away her pain. But he had known that his medicine was only meant for him, only meant for the body afflicted enough to handle the intensity of such drugs. He had known that something like this could happen to her. But he had shared his mask all the same. Because he knew she needed to sleep, because he knew that she was in so much pain from the hit he had given her to the face.

Camille's body hadn't taken the drugs well at all. But, he thought in a strange and twisted way, at least she wasn't hurting right now.

As long as her breathing didn't stop she would be fine. She would just need to rest and allow the medicine to leave her system until she could function normally. Bane moved himself onto his knees above her, and removed the blanket from her body completely. He turned her onto her back, noticed she was sweating slightly, and removed the black sweater she had put on the night before, sliding her seemingly dead arms out of the sleeves so her skin could breathe. He readjusted the army green tank top that had become twisted upon her body, and removed the hair that had stuck to her skin. She watched him the whole time, her limbs lifeless and weak, watching him with her raven black eyes and the bruises along the right side of her face from his unrelenting hand.

Bane turned her hips some so that she could lay comfortably and completely flat on her bed. He noticed her weak and unfocused hand rising towards him, and didn't move away when she softly placed it underneath his chin. He stared back down at her, at her beaten face and her glassy eyes, and remained still as her hand moved up to his cheek, resting it there gently over the straps of the mask he had put over her own lips the night before. She took more slow breaths as she caressed him in her delirium, her dark pink lips slightly open, the bottom one a little swollen from impact and injury. Her fingers softly touched the skin she could feel on his face, her eyes watching him because she seemed like she didn't want to look at anything else. And when those eyes started to lower as she began to drift off to sleep again in her drowsiness, Bane found himself turning his face into her hand, brushing the spider-like tubes of his mask against her palm before it dropped away.

He needed to leave Camille so he could continue the plan to avenge Talia, and to regain his place back in the corrupt city of Gotham. He glanced at the bruises coloring the right side of her face one more time before he slowly climbed out of her bed, and left her to her oblivion.

* * *

When he'd been trying to change her, when he had focused on an idea that would never work just to soothe his own grief, Camille had not been able to fight off Bane when he would unsuccessfully try to train her in the ways of self-defense. She hadn't participated because she knew, deep down inside, before her professional mind had returned to her, that something else was going on with the way Bane had been acting. And because, in another place deep down inside her that had nothing to do with professionalism, she hadn't wanted to hurt him. Not that she ever thought in the slightest that she could hurt Bane physically. Gotham City's very own Dark Knight had barely survived him when it came to the act of hand to hand combat. And she knew that she only felt that way in the first place because she still, at times, would see him as the patient she had tried her very hardest to rehabilitate.

She didn't like it, didn't like those annoying emotions of feeling somewhat responsible for his wellbeing. But she did feel that way… sometimes.

But Camille knew there was one thing she could fight. After much struggle, and many nauseating hours during the nights of fighting back the shakes and the nightmares that were sometimes a terrible side-effect of extreme painkillers, she had beaten it, had forced her body to drain the remaining medicine from her system because she knew, as a doctor, what had to be done. When it came to how her body had reacted to the medicine that Bane had given her, she had won. And was now starting to feel a little normal internally.

No, Camille knew she would never be able to stop Bane from hurting her. She had already failed in that department. But she could fight other things he would do to her. The effects of the medicine he should never have given her in the first place, and his yearning for Talia al Ghul to return to him as someone else.

Camille stared at her reflection in the mirror in her dim and chilly room, stared into the face that still held the effects of Bane's hard hand, the evidence that the one she tended to every single day had hurt her.

The swelling had gone down. Camille had thought that to be the worst part of her injuries, the plump and tender skin that would make her so uncomfortable during the sleepless nights alone and in pain. Her right eye was still bruised, as was her cheekbone and jaw underneath, but the black and blue mesh of color had fainted ever so slightly to make room for the sickly yellow of healing. She knew it was a good sign, but it still made her feel weak and helpless.

To look at that half of her face made her feel ugly.

It had been a few days since Bane had hit her. The first couple of days had been spent fighting off the effects of his painkillers. And Camille just didn't know how she felt about that. She didn't know what to think of Bane taking off his mask, his lifeline to comfort, and holding it against her mouth so she could breathe what he was always breathing, feel what he was always feeling. Somehow, the whole act had been more intimate than a kiss. And knowing that, trying to accept that the same man who had hit her had given her that small ounce of comfort, was something she found very hard to do. But, as a professional, she knew what had been going on. The things she'd said to him may have been very true and something he most certainly needed to hear, but it was too true to the point that she had forced him to hear it when he was still so raw from the reality of his relationship with Talia al Ghul, and her death. Her anger had gotten the better of her, and she had forced hard truths on someone who wasn't quite ready to hear and accept. In a strange and twisted way, she could understand as his psychiatrist the smack he'd given her.

But as the woman who had no other choice but to trust him because he was all she had, understanding was a lot harder to come by.

After her system became clean from his medicine, Camille spent the next few days ignoring Bane. She hadn't wanted to see him, hadn't wanted to talk to him. And was very grateful when he had chosen to stay away for an extra day, giving her the privacy she needed so she could hide her face away. But when her duties to him had called, she had no choice but to do the work he needed her to do.

Camille knew she was hurting on the inside. Any woman would feel the same way after getting hit by a man who they had trusted. And because this was _Bane_, she knew that this wasn't the average domestic violence situation. It was almost… normal behavior. But she couldn't keep the resentment and the childish acts of ignoring him out of her feelings and actions. When he would come to her, she didn't speak to him. When she knew he was looking at her, she refused to meet his eyes. She did the work of taking care of him, silent and impersonal, and would simply walk away from him once the job was done.

Because of Bane, none of her makeup could cover the navy blue and yellow bruises covering the right side of her face, her black eye. Because of Bane, she was ugly.

She knew she needed to forgive him. But right now, she didn't have to.

Camille lifted a hand and trailed her fingers down her face as she continued to look at the mess in the reflection. Soon, these bruises would fade as well. Just like the other ones Bane had left on her body when she'd allowed him to touch her, the impulsive night of fast sex. It seemed to be just one mistake after another with him.

She sighed and looked around, realized that she had to get out of her room for a little while. She dug a black shawl out of the duffle bag still filled with the unsuitable clothes she'd packed while lost in thought, and wrapped it around her shoulders over the t-shirt and leggings she'd thrown on for comfort. She had tried earlier to paint her lips her favorite red, just so she could feel better about her face, but the bruises had only become embellished. She smacked her lips softly, having to settle for a nude lipstick today, and left her room in search of anything to occupy her time other than Bane.

She found it in the form of a small, outdated television in one of the many rooms and hallways of the underground complex she lived in. No one else was around, Bane's men most likely doing something else or on a mission she knew nothing about. She walked up to the black box and turned it on, hoped that it was working. When it did, she realized that she'd been locked up in here for so long that she had absolutely no idea what was going on with the outside world. She became somewhat excited when she pressed the buttons to flip through the snowy channels, trying to find one that worked and would give her that gateway to Gotham she'd been taken from. Finally, she found a channel that worked, and figured luck was on her side for once when she discovered it was the news channel.

She feverishly took in all information, any information, just to hear was what going on in the city she had been closed off from for so long. She ignored the pain she'd caused her face when she absently reached up to scratch along the itchy bruise at her jaw, her eyes feasting on everything, the weather reports, the news anchor's bad choice of dress suit, and even the commercials. For a moment, she forgot about the condition of her face and simply watched TV.

She learned so much. She learned from the news that there was now someone else who was protecting the citizens of the city, someone who had taken the job of the deceased Batman because whoever it was still believed Gotham needed a hero. And while Camille could agree that this new masked man, this Nightwing as she was told, was admirable for taking on such a job, she also knew that he was very foolish. No one could save Gotham. And she feared that this Nightwing would very well end up just like the Batman if he didn't wise up, and accept the conditions of the city. She watched quick clips the news had of him, noted that he was very young, and wondered if he'd already had the misfortune of meeting with Bane.

And then, almost like a fist to the stomach, the top story of the night, the story they repeatedly replayed over and over because the news station believed the people of Gotham had a right to know, was about Bane, and how much closer, or further away, the police department was to catching him. And because she had no idea what he was up to when he would leave her, Camille drank in everything the news had to offer about Bane, and was fully told of his actions.

The news anchor reminded Gotham of Bane's escape, of the terrible night their monster had broken out of Arkham Asylum, taking just one prisoner with him. Camille winced a little when she saw her own face appear on the screen, and then paled considerably when she heard what the station had to report on her.

"_Police are still searching for Dr. Camille Lane, who we believe was the mercenary Bane's psychiatrist during his sentence there, and the only known captive as of yet. Last known sightings of her had been during her shift at Arkham Asylum on the day she was kidnapped by Bane. The victim is believed to still be alive by Gotham's police commissioner, James Gordon, who aided in the capture of Bane and the end of the revolution. While Commissioner Gordon refused to answer any further questions on the wellbeing of Dr. Lane, outside sources tell us that she may be a torture/rape victim, aiding the mercenary with questionable health problems. If you or anyone else you know has any information on the safe return of Camille Lane, please contact the number listed below." _

Great, she thought, and had no other choice but to accept what was being reported on the news. What on earth would they think if they knew the truth?

The next segment of the story told Camille of Jeremiah Arkham's attack and the injuries he had sustained at the hands of Bane, and his slow recovery. She was also told that former Wayne Enterprises employee Lucius Fox had sadly been attacked as well, his condition currently stable in the ICU of Gotham General. The police were doing everything that could to bring Bane back into custody, the city rejoicing in the fact that once he was captured, they would not leave him alive as they had done before.

Camille folded her arms and learned more on the investigation to bring Bane down, learned more about the hero Nightwing that was searching for him, and for her, too. And when she heard the sound of those painfully familiar boots approach behind her, she did the same thing she'd been doing for days. She ignored him, and continued to listen to the news.

She wanted to leave, but stayed put as Bane stood beside her. She wanted to simply turn around and walk away, but continued to watch the now faint sounds of the TV in front of her. She kept her gaze straight ahead, even when she knew he was looking at her, trying to pretend that he wasn't there and not causing her chest to tighten from his presence.

Bane reached up, his arm covered in the sleeve of his long brown coat, and turned down the volume of the TV. The act annoyed her, but her pride kept her from dashing away, so she stayed and kept watching, kept listening to what he was doing when he wasn't with her. And when his hand was suddenly becoming closer to the face he had hit, she held her ground and let him take the uninjured side of her face in his palm. His mask hissed softly from his breathing as he turned her gaze towards his.

It felt like the first time in days since she had stared into those incredible green eyes of his. She had tried to ignore him because she was still so upset that he had struck her. But now, she couldn't look away as he held his hand against her unmarked cheek. She watched as his eyes took in the injured side of her face, at the ugly yellow and blue color it had been reduced to, his gaze dancing over her skin the way his hands had travelled over her body when he'd tried to make her anxiety go away. She remembered that day, the way she'd given in to human temptations because her body had desperately wanted to feel the sensations again. She thought of the way she had let him touch her, of the way she had let him take her body so that he could replace Jackson for her. And finally, for the first time in days, she spoke to Bane because she felt she had to prove something to him, but maybe more to herself.

"I don't want you," Camille murmured to him, an unmoving resentment in her eyes she made appear so he could believe her, believe something she was trying to convince herself of so that she wouldn't feel as if something was wrong with her if it turned out to be a lie.

Bane gazed deeply into her dark eyes, and realized that he was coming to know her a lot more than she would like. He saw the struggle within her when it came to the physical with them, and also saw the lie she was trying to tell her mind.

"Yes, you do," he murmured back, and moved his fingertips onto the bruised skin of her face, trailing them down slowly and with no hesitancy on her part.

Irritation settled into her eyes then, but she had yet to move away from him, or pull away from his touch. She scowled, and allowed the soft caress of his fingers to move across the bruises he had caused to her face. He was wrong, she told herself. He's wrong, because he hurt you.

"Are you sure it's me you're touching?" she snipped, and took pleasure in the sudden snap of his gaze back onto hers.

Because he was arguing with her, Camille hoped she struck a nerve inside him. She could tell that he had gotten over trying to change her into a dead woman. As a professional who dealt with the mind, she could tell that the only person he now saw her as was Camille. But because he was disagreeing with something she had to physically tell herself in the mirror each time her thoughts would stray, she would bring up the touchy subject again, and remind him of what he'd done to her. Camille moved her bruised face away from his hand with a sneer.

"I don't want you," she said again, and threw him once last unforgiving look before walking away.

He simply watched her go.

* * *

Later on in his quarters, Bane and Barsad stared intently at the monitor set on the same news channel, watching a second segment dedicated to the capture of Bane and the men the police had never been able to find and arrest after the revolution. The primary officer of the task force to bring him in was someone Bane had met before, a long time ago in Gotham General after his surgeries and recovery time was complete, right before he'd been sentenced and taken to Arkham Asylum.

Lieutenant Jason Brooks, formally with the U.S Army before he'd been reassigned to the capture of Bane by the government, was seen on the news heading a team of officers outside the home of Lucius Fox hours after his broken body had been found by the housekeeper. Brooks had been the one to tell the city in a press release that Bane would be taken dead or alive this time. If alive, then the time the mercenary would have left on earth would not be for very long at all. Bane would be given the death sentence almost immediately after his capture, Brooks promising Gotham that they would very soon be able to sleep well at night knowing that their former liberator would never be able to harm them again. Lieutenant Brooks had also made a statement declaring his utmost attention to the case, and that he would not rest until the criminal Bane was in custody. He also swore that he would use whatever kind of military influence he had to keep every citizen safe, and that no one else would suffer at Bane's hand.

Bane stared at the determination of the bold lieutenant, the heat and will to succeed clouding his eyes completely. He remembered the anger he'd felt from the officer when he had the unfortunate job of telling Bane that the government was allowing him to live, his obvious disapproval on the matter terribly evident on his withered face. Bane knew the man had connections after having served in the military for so long, and knew that those connections wouldn't bode well for him. Barsad knew it too.

"Are you going to kill him?" he asked Bane, watching the screen and the way Brooks ordered his men around like dogs, a man fully intending on keeping his promises to people who didn't deserve them.

Bane knew it would take hardly a lift of a finger to get the lieutenant where he wanted him. Because along with the will and determination, inside the officer's eyes was a drive that could cloud judgment, that could make mistakes, and that could mislead him to a very untimely demise. Bane knew what would have to be done. He felt an odd sense of disappointment that he would not be able to dispose of the officer the way he would normally intend to, slowly and painfully. But there would be plenty of that for the other chosen few.

"Yes," Bane answered simply, and stood. "Let us make sure Lieutenant Brooks does not keep his promises."

* * *

The explosion had shaken Main Street. First there had been a rumble, and then the ground had vibrated under the feet of pedestrians before most of the street had crumbled, sending cars into the sides and bumpers of others, sending hot stings of fiery pain to those close enough to feel it as the flashes of fire bloomed up from various manholes. Pieces of asphalt had rained down, chunks of the road that would carry people to work or shopping littering the streets like garbage.

Lieutenant Jason Brooks, with his wiry caramel-colored hair standing on end and his eyes droopy from sleepless nights, stood amongst the ruin and scowled. He pointed one bony finger at the nearest cop.

"Call a cleaning crew for this mess, and get Explosions and Bombs over here now. I want anything they dig up in my hand within the next thirty minutes. And where the hell is Gordon?"

"On his way, sir," the shaky uniformed cop replied, trying to drown out a wailing woman who had taken a chunk of road to the shoulder and was crying on the arm of the paramedic tending to her. "This city is full of wachos. How do you figure it's connected to the Bane case?"

"Because he's the only one making shit like this happen at the moment, that's how. Shoulda terminated him when they had the chance," he muttered, then sighed with frustration as he pulled his jacket tighter around his body from the cold wind. He hated the cold. "This is going to take time to clean up. Any progress on locating the victim?"

"No, sir. No new leads on finding Camille Lane. And not one call on the help line."

Brooks stuck his chilled hands into his pockets and kicked at a chunk of Main Street with his toe. "Well, my God, are we the only ones looking for her? That estranged family of hers couldn't tell us dick about what she's been doing for the last number of years, much less want to help find her."

"The Bird is searching for her too, Sir."

Brooks scoffed at the mention of Nightwing and scanned the gray buildings around them, glad that the explosion hadn't taken them out and would only have added to the mess he would have to clean up. Because of that bastard. "Please. That guy has roughly a month before he ends up just like the Batman. This place is insane…" Jason looked up at the gray sky of Gotham City, and wished he could go home and never have to return here. The stress of the army had seemed less in comparison to this place, this city where criminals outnumbered the hardworking average Joe like it was no big deal. And why was it so damn cold here? "Scope the area again, get all remaining civilians off the crime scene, and have the bomb squad bag all the evidence they can find. Any suspicious characters you see, bring 'em in. I've had it with this shit. I want that fucker locked up and terminated by the end of next week."

"Yes, sir."

"And have a detective question that ex-husband of Lane's again. Ask him if she spoke to him about anything involving her case with Bane, anything at all. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," he repeated, and rushed off to follow his orders with a phone already in hand.

This place was hell, Brooks decided as he began scoping the area out himself. This place was a crowded, crazy, and corrupt hell. Even he knew it. Everyone knew. But that knowledge wouldn't stop him from doing his job, from protecting and serving the citizens of the country. James Gordon worked himself to the bone, even sacrificing his own family for the job, and Brooks knew that if he lived here in Gotham, in just ten years time he would become just like the police commissioner. If you were on the force, Gotham tended to take you completely, and never let go.

But he couldn't give up in fear that he would lose himself. Bane had to be found and secured. For the sake of the lives here, Jason knew he would spend every hour of every day searching until he could lock the cage on the mercenary himself.

Brooks scanned the surrounding buildings again, noting all the businesses, all the apartments, all the warehouses that occupied space on Main Street. He would need to have a few of his men scour the nearest establishments to the explosion site in hopes of some kind of evidence, or even a suspect. As soon as the Commissioner arrived he would get right on it. For now, all he needed was one little moment of peace before heading back into the field. His sanity demanded it.

Jason noticed a flash out of the corner of his eye, and looked up at one of the tall buildings that hovered over the streets. He saw it again in one of the windows on what he guessed was the eighth or ninth floor. Squinting, he could make out a body through the glass. Focusing more, as his eyes adjusted to the distance and the dimness of the room he was trying to look into, he could make out the distinct shape of a horrific facial contraption.

His tired eyes widened as he was given a mocking salute by none other than Bane himself.

It was the last thing he saw before there was a boom of a sniper, and he fell to the ruined street.

Then, there was chaos. The screams of fellow officers as they ran to the body of their fallen lieutenant, the wails of civilians as they watched the trail of blood leak from the bullet hole in Brooks' forehead, the shouts of onlookers who stood nearby, shocked and oddly fascinated.

Inside the building that looked down at the street they had bombed for distraction, Bane patted Barsad on the shoulder, a satisfied grin underneath his mask.

* * *

Camille sat on the floor of her room because she didn't want to go back in her bed, the bed she had been stuck in for a little while as Bane's drugs left her system, the bed he somehow had stayed in the night he hit her. She sat on the floor on her knees, reading another book because she had nothing else to do and didn't want to go to sleep. Her tight black yoga pants hugged her hips and thighs and the dark blue tank top her only clean shirt left to clothe her upper body and shield her from the chill that flowed through her underground home like the wind. But she didn't mind it tonight. She wanted to feel the cold dance over her skin. It took away from the slight heat in her bruises.

The book sat in her lap, but she couldn't read it. Her thumbs held her place, but pages hadn't been turned. She wanted to read it, but could only stare into space and think, her mind wandering, contemplating, straying.

She wished Bane hadn't hit her, and at the same time was glad for it. She didn't like it because she wasn't happy with how she interacted with him now, ignoring him, dismissing him without words because she hadn't wanted to talk to him. She knew her behavior was childish, but what else could she do? Bane may not have it in him to apologize, but she found that she was waiting on one, knowing all the same that it would never happen. She wanted him to do something that would give her cause to forgive him. She hated this tension, this silence. The other part of her that was glad for the bruises covering her face held on to her refusal to forgive him. If she didn't forgive him, then she wouldn't think of him in the way she refused to think of him. If she didn't forgive Bane, then she could believe the last thing she had said to him. Because, she told herself with determination, it was true. It had to be true. She didn't want him.

But, Camille realized with a sigh, she didn't forgive him and yet she was still thinking of him. What a piece of work you are, she thought to herself.

She heard the broken door of her bedroom creak open, the one dim light in her room flickering with the entering body. And once again, those boots thudded behind her. Once again, she felt her body tense from his presence for reasons other than fear. She looked back down at the book in her lap, and tried to read a few words. But when she felt him standing directly behind her, she stilled. When Bane slowly crouched down so she could hear his hissing mask at her back, she waited.

Camille rubbed her nude-colored lips together as the seconds flew by with him kneeling right behind her. She quickly blocked out memories of the last time he'd been behind her, touching her, making her anxiety go away with his large, rough hands. She remained still and silent, the only sound in the room his breathing and the soft squeaks of his brown leather coat.

She heard him move then, heard the sounds of his coat as his arm reached forward, passing her, holding his hand out next to her as he crouched behind her. Camille looked down at his hand, and felt her chest constrict.

In Bane's hand was a single black rose, the beautiful dark petals in full bloom and the long, thorny stem a rich green. She sat on the floor, stared at the offering in his hand, and knew what this flower was telling her, the words he wouldn't give except within one black rose.

_I'm sorry_.

Camille swallowed softly and gripped the book in her lap, her gaze remaining on the lovely flower waiting for her to take it, the apology she would never hear nestled in the palm of his hand. Bane waited patiently behind her, both of them understanding what it meant if she would just take the rose from him, no words having to be said, no actions having to be justified. They knew each other now. And both understood that for her to pluck the rose from his hand would only say one thing.

_I forgive you._

Calmly, because she realized she wanted to, needed to because this was what she had been foolishly waiting on him for, Camille reached for Bane's hand, and slowly picked up her black rose, accepting it, telling him the silent words that had separated them for days because of the bruises on her face.

She turned her head just a little so she could peak at him over her shoulder, acknowledging him, and softly placed the black rose, the color of her long curly hair, onto her lap.

Bane kneeled behind her for just a few more moments before slowly moving away, and leaving her room through the door he had broken.

He didn't know what to think of what had just transpired. Camille was annoying him, making him do questionable things, making him feel like she was just a bug who was crawling underneath his skin. He didn't know if he liked it very much. If it were anyone else, he would have done away with them. If anyone else had been so annoying, they would be dead. But it was different, because he had hurt her. It was different, because she was taking care of him. Bane walked away from her room and decided that he didn't know if having a woman around was such a good idea anymore.

But that woman was Camille.

And Bane thought maybe it was time for her to leave.

**TBC**

**A/N: People do crazy things, don't they? Things like offering objects as words, or bringing back a nothing of a character from chapter two only to kill him in chapter eighteen. Or crazy things like making almost every freaking chapter title a Nightwish song. But for crying out loud, these lyrics fit, and flow beautifully with the dark, romantic theme of this story. If you don't know who Nightwish is, you must check them out. They completely have my heart when it comes to music, their songs just a lovely as that single black rose. **


	19. She is my Sin

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 19**

**She is my Sin**

"_A sin for him, desire within, desire within. A burning veil for the bride too dear for him. A sin for him, desire within, desire within. Fall in love with your deep dark sin." – Nightwish_

Camille couldn't sleep. She didn't want to because she knew what would be waiting for her. Feeling annoyed, she reminded herself that she'd beaten the effects that Bane's painkillers had had on her body. She beat the drowsiness, she beat the shakes, the nausea, the respiratory problems that came with the intensity. She really had won, she told herself again. But one side-effect that she was still having the slightest of trouble with was the nightmares. She didn't want to sleep because she didn't want to be wakened by them.

She paced her bedroom, ignoring the clock that told her it was passed midnight, wanting to be doing something so she wouldn't have to sleep just yet. Usually she slept dreamlessly if she waited for pure exhaustion to consume her. And that was just what she was going to do. Pace until she couldn't pace anymore.

But, to give herself something to look forward to, she knew that they were becoming less and less tolling on her. The nightmares were nothing like they had been since after Bane had put his mask on her face. They were going back to the usual irritating sleep that she'd been dealing with ever since things had gotten bad with her emotionally. But, even though she was still having nightmares no matter what was going on, she was just glad that they were lessening on her.

Camille slipped on her black capri yoga pants in the dim orange light of her room, the only other clothing on her body a black bra, and glanced over at her sad excuse for a dresser.

The rose Bane had given her earlier rested upon her dresser, its black petals reflecting the light of the one lamp in her chilly space. She sighed softly as she stared at it, wondering how something so small and delicate could mean so very much. She didn't want to think it meant as much as it did to her, but she had to tell herself enough lies. And really didn't have the energy for one more. That small black flower had become what she wanted from him, the words that would never be spoken, the apology and the accepted forgiveness all rolled into one rose.

Camille could remember staring at her face before she'd been given her flower, and how she felt that maybe she could never forgive Bane for hurting her. Which was silly, when she really thought about it. Bane was a criminal. Bane was a mercenary bent on Gotham's destruction. Of _course_ he would hurt her. She'd almost died last year because of him. She'd been kidnapped and blackmailed with her ex-husband's life. For Bane to smack her the way he had should not have surprised her in the least. She knew this kind of behavior firsthand because this was the kind of people she worked with at Arkham Asylum.

But when he had smacked her, when she'd had to stare at her bruised face for days because he couldn't control his anger when she refused to keep Talia alive through her own self, the unforgiving feelings inside her had been so strong and so consuming that she didn't know what to do with it. Bane had _hit_ her, after everything she did for him, everything they'd been through together when it came to their dysfunctional pasts, even after the one night she refused to speak about. He had hit her.

And, she thought, picking up her flower and bringing it to her nose so she could smell the lovely aroma, he had also apologized in the only way he would to her. And after knowing him on an entirely different level than when she thought she had known him in the asylum, she knew what it meant for him to do that. After he had held the black rose out to her, she had no other choice but to accept his apology and forgive him.

And, she realized, she did forgive him. Because she could understand him.

Camille yawned and decided that she wanted to lie down. She sniffed her flower once last time before setting it back on her dresser, and crawled into her bed after turning off the dim lamp. She thought maybe she should put a shirt on over her bra to ward off the chill in the room, but knew that, at some point in the night, it would be carelessly tossed aside anyway. She rubbed the yellow smear of the faint bruises on the right side of her face before pulling the covers up to her chin. Minutes passed, and she didn't realize when she'd fallen asleep. Didn't know she was dreaming until she was suddenly inside a very dark house, and being pulled in a hundred different directions from the grasping hands at her ankles, wrists, and clothes.

Children were crying. Camille knew they were the sobs of her brothers from long ago. They pulled at her, whining to her, their sad faces begging her to take care of them. Because they needed her, because Mother had left again, because they were hungry and there was no more food. Their cries stung her eyes, tightened her throat in guilt as she tried to stumble away. But she couldn't. They held on, their strong hands keeping her in the home she had tried to build for them, telling her that she couldn't leave because they was no one else, no one else to feed them. Daddy doesn't care, he only cares where Mother is. And she's gone. There's only you, Camille, they cried to her, holding her even when she tried to leave. We need you, but we hate you. Feed us, and listen to us. Put on a happy face for us and tell us that everything will be alright, but cut yourself in your room.

She stumbled again and they snatched at her ankles. They tripped her up until she was falling, falling until she was being locked inside her childhood bedroom with the cries of her brothers in the distance, and the threats of her mother outside her door, her fists banging on the wood like gunshots, making her wince every time a hand would connect with her door. Camille covered her head with her arms, felt hot, thick liquid sliding into her black curls. She gasped and stared down at her forearms, watched as the slimy red goo of her blood seeped out of every single cut along her skin. She squealed in terror and looked down, saw that she was sitting in a pool of her spilled blood.

Gasping, whimpering, she clawed her way back until her spine hit the wall inside the bedroom that had become her prison. She clawed frantically away from her blood, away from the screams of her mother outside her door.

_If you had just kept your mouth shut, I wouldn't be stuck in this hole with you, Camille. I should have gotten rid of you while I had the chance. All I need are my boys. My sweet, shining stars. I didn't want a girl. You hear me in there, Camille? I should have gotten rid of you! But it's too late now, baby girl. _

She realized she was crying, crying because Mother was home and she was yelling at her again. Crying because the cuts along her forearms weren't making her feel better right now. But they were supposed to make her feel better. They always did. Now, they were just leaking her life down her skin. And her mother wouldn't go away. Camille covered her face with her bloody forearms as she cowered in the stinking and blinding mist, waiting for her to leave. Waiting for her to leave her alone so she could make more blood drip onto the floor.

Camille jolted awake and almost screamed until a large hand covered her mouth, muffling her, bringing her back to reality as she gasped into the palm silencing her. She almost felt the need to thrash until she realized that Bane was standing over her, his hand over her mouth, the other on her shoulder to keep her down. She glanced around the room, calming herself so she knew she wasn't back at her mother's house, and took a deep breath into his hand.

Feeling her compose herself, Bane removed his hand and watched as she sat up, holding the flimsy blanket against her chest, and rested her back along the headboard of her bed.

Camille rubbed her hands over arms, winced a little as she quickly looked down at them. But only the small scars that littered across her forearms were there. No bleeding cuts that wouldn't stop from her dream. She brushed her fingers over them, almost consolingly, and glanced up at Bane. He was dressed only in a pair of pants and his vest, seemingly not caring about the chill running throughout the underground complex and the fact that it was now three in the morning. She thought maybe she should feel a little embarrassed that Bane had woken her from a dramatic nightmare, but she didn't. He'd seen worse from her than that. And now that she'd forgiven him she didn't feel the animosity that had built up inside her after he had hit her. Things were back to normal.

But, when concerning her and Bane, normal wasn't necessarily good either.

His mask gave a loud hiss right before he spoke, his voice a little hoarse because of the hour. "You were dreaming of your mother again."

Camille rubbed her lips together, hated that they were bare in this chill. "I assume I was talking in my sleep?"

"Yes," he answered, standing at the side of her bed. "But you always have nightmares of your mother. I've known that since the night I escaped from the asylum."

"Oh," she answered simply and remembered that they had once shared a bed. Apparently this wasn't the first time Bane had experienced her sleep pattern. "Why are you over here anyway? It's three in the morning."

He stood there coolly for a moment, then calmly lowered himself onto the edge of her bed. "I was walking and thinking." He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. "I couldn't sleep."

Camille stared at him, and wished he'd sat on the floor instead of her bed. She pressed the blanket harder against her chest, and felt the part of her that was still his doctor rise a little. She wondered if his not being able to sleep had anything to do with Talia al Ghul, and the terms of their relationship he still hadn't come to. "What were you thinking about?"

Bane stared at his hands and suddenly felt like they were in the old session room again. He'd been thinking about too many things at once. He'd been thinking of Talia, he'd been thinking of Gotham, and he'd been thinking of Camille and the continuing annoyances she gave him. "Too much for so early an hour," he answered.

She almost pressed the issue, almost asked him another question on his thoughts. But as she looked at him, she knew that he still wasn't ready to discuss matters that were still so raw. She wouldn't question him, but she would give him just a little something that could help. "You have a lot to think about," she said knowingly. "And a lot to… accept."

Camille waited for a response, and was only given more silence. Bane continued to look down, continued to remain quiet, and she frowned. She wished she could help him in the way he needed help when it came to Talia al Ghul. But she knew it would be like trying to help a brick wall right now. Bane couldn't discuss Talia because it wasn't in him yet to talk. And maybe he would never talk to her about it. But as she looked at him now, she noticed that he had shadows underneath his green eyes. And knew that the haunting face of a dead woman was keeping him awake. She found that she didn't like that at all, didn't like that the abuse of one woman was now worming its way into her own life, didn't like that Bane was suddenly so much a part of it. And because the way he was right now was continuing to make her frown, she decided that she would talk to him, and kick the ghost of Talia out of the room and away from him.

She wanted to talk to him because she felt like she hadn't in so long. And because she found that she needed to. Camille sighed and scooted to the edge of her bed, keeping the blanket against her chest, trying to make it wrap around her bare waist as she sat next to him. They sat in dark silence for a few moments before she spoke, speaking quietly and surprising herself with the words coming out of her mouth.

"I don't like to think about that night."

At first Bane thought it was the night he had hit her. Then he knew exactly the night she was referring to. He asked anyway, "Which night?"

Camille sighed softly, and wondered what made her bring this up. "The night I let you touch me."

Bane felt her shift a little, moving the blanket so it could cover herself more. He didn't look her way, but kept his eyes ahead of himself, staring at nothing but listening to her all the same. "There were two nights," he told her softly.

She was a little surprised that he had brought up that second night to her. She thought maybe he had blocked it out because she knew that he had been in a bad place, and had really wanted to be touching Talia. But maybe there had been deeper issues. Maybe, inside him somewhere, he knew who he was touching. Which didn't help how those two nights made her feel. "I know," she whispered.

More silence. Bane calmly breathed in his medicine, Camille held the blanket against her chest that was only clothed with a bra. He stared at the floor, she glanced out in the distance. The silence was oddly comfortable. But she didn't know how two people sitting right next to each other could seem so far away. His sudden voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"That first night," he started, remembering the night he had removed her ex-husband's unseen hands from her body. The night she apparently didn't like to think about. "If you could return to that first night, would you refuse my offer?"

Camille surprisingly mused over his question, and couldn't stop herself from thinking about the way Bane had grabbed the skirt of her dress, yanking it up and exposing her. She remembered the way he had lifted her from the ground and leaned her against the wall. She remembered the first moment his body had connected with hers. She felt her skin start to tingle just then, felt that overly annoying ache in her lower stomach. And decided that it was a really bad conversation to have when you were wearing only your bra under a very thin blanket next to the man you had told you didn't want. She concentrated on the question instead of the body next to her.

"No, I don't think I would," she answered truthfully. "It meant nothing. I don't regret it… But I still consider it a mistake."

He gave a breathless laugh. "That hardly makes any sense."

Camille took the ends of her curls into her fingers, and began twisting them as she agreed. "I guess it doesn't."

Bane sat there, clenching and relaxing his hands repeatedly as he kept his eyes on the floor. He could see in the corner of his eye that she was now playing with her hair, the hair he had fisted the night they were discussing. He could smell her too, the scent that was so overpoweringly female in the very small room. And he knew how little she wore underneath the blanket.

"Life is full of mistakes," he said softly.

Camille swallowed softly, keeping her eyes on anything except him. She didn't know what exactly they were discussing anymore. She sighed again and whispered, "I don't want to make any more."

Bane almost smiled underneath his mask, and finally turned his head to look at her, as did she. Her hair was tousled from her interrupted sleep, her bottom eyelids smudged with faint black. He could see the straps of her bra on her shoulders, wondered how she would react if he slid them down her skin. But he couldn't do that because she had to leave. He couldn't touch her, because although he knew that she really did want him, no matter what she said, he would refuse to be the one to start it. Camille couldn't hide from herself for very long. She had spent too many years doing just that.

They stared at each other for a little while, Camille wishing that he would look away and make those unwanted stirrings disappear inside her. She didn't want to feel that way for him. She really didn't want to keep making mistakes, mistakes like that first night she found she couldn't regret.

She was afraid she would lose herself again.

Her prayer was suddenly answered when Bane rose from her bed and quietly left her room.

She ignored the disappointment that had settled into the pit of her stomach.

* * *

The next evening, Camille was fighting with her hair, trying to make it look more like clean, natural curls than the coarse rat's nest it turned into after a few days of not washing it. Her hair could only handle being washed twice a week, otherwise it would begin to slowly fall out strand by strand and thin.

She sighed at her reflection and gave up. She wished she could go to the salon and get her hair done, just like she used to before Bane had taken her away from the world she'd built for herself. She wanted to get her hair washed, wanted to get her eyebrows done, and go to the lady who always waxed her. She wanted to do all those girly things she'd never gotten to do under her mother's rule growing up, because Camille was simply not allowed to seem more attractive than her, not allowed to participate in what the beauty industry had to offer women. Camille knew she was somewhat obsessed with that world because of her deprivation of it while living with her mother. But she didn't care. She'd found that she loved it and fit in perfectly.

If she'd chosen a different career, she wouldn't be in this mess right now, she mused. Maybe she should have chosen something involving the beauty world she loved. Maybe, in another life, she would have been an esthetician or a fancy make-up artist. Or maybe she would have been a great hair stylist.

Camille glanced at her own hair in the mirror, and decided maybe that wasn't the road for her.

But if she had chosen a different field, maybe she wouldn't be where she was now, locked away to care for a man her city hunted, a man who could snap a neck with a simple twist of his powerful arms. A man who, even remembering all of that, would sneak his way into her thoughts all throughout the day.

If Camille had decided to become something other than a psychiatrist, would she be doing something completely different right now? Or would fate somehow hand her the same deck of cards that had brought Bane to her, and sealed her place with him? Would she still be standing here, thinking of him, if she hadn't become the woman who would eventually take his case file and decide to treat him?

But, Camille told herself, it was useless to think of the what-could-have-been's. There was no room in the mind for contemplations of that nature. The cards had been dealt and the decisions had been made. The only thing left to do was to somehow make life work.

How could she make this new life of hers work when there were so many problems with it?

Camille stared into her black eyes in the mirror, was glad that her bruises had faded completely to yellow instead of blue. She'd dressed herself earlier in a pair of black skinny jeans with her boots, her torso covered in a tight navy blue long-sleeved shirt. Her lips were a dark tan, painted so that the chill wouldn't chap them. She may not be able to help how her hair behaved, but she'd be damned if she got chapped lips. She shook her curls a little to fluff them, make them look somewhat presentable, just as the man Bane called Barsad entered her broken doorway, dressed for battle with a gun at his hip.

Camille found herself eyeing him slightly, wondering if this was the man who had snuck into her bedroom to leave her another threatening note a few days ago. She hadn't received any others after that last one. And because she knew that her mysterious messenger was someone inside Bane's army, she found that she was acting suspicious around them now instead of indifferently like she used to. She knew that this man called Barsad was Bane's most trusted mercenary, and wondered if she should even be suspecting him because of that.

But, in this world, no one could be trusted.

Just like she did every time she would come across one of Bane's men for whatever reason, she stood fearless before them, showing them that she would not cower just because they were armed and stronger than she was. There were bigger and scarier things to fear than a simple man. "Does he want me?" she asked Barsad.

He nodded, and stepped back from the door so that she could pass him. Barsad knew that Bane wanted her to remain untouched by any of them. And while he would never harass her simply because he didn't care much for hysterical females, Barsad wondered if the others, the ones who hadn't been with Bane for as long as most of them, would follow that rule. Bane had told him to tell the entire army what would become of them if she were to be harmed, simply because she was valuable to him at the moment. And apparently, they had listened as of right now.

Barsad hoped, for the sake of their operation, that they would continue to listen. He hated having to lose useful men.

Camille walked down the dark, cold hallways of the underground complex, her heels tapping along the concrete as she made her way to Bane's chamber. She heard the _drip drip_ of leaky pipes, the creak of old machines from a very old structure that had become her home. Once she arrived at the large curtain that closed off Bane's room to everything else, she pulled it back and entered.

She saw him standing in front of the cluster of monitors, watching the security cameras tape the surrounding areas of his hideout. He was dressed in his usual military garb, most of it covered from that long brown coat that looked as if it weighed a ton. She wondered if he was leaving soon, and only calling for her to give her orders before he left to do more damage to the city. She approached him closer, knowing he knew she'd arrived because of the sound of her boots, and waited.

Bane watched the monitors for a few more moments before turning his head to glance at her. The first thing his eyes went to were the disappearing bruises along her face, and then the ever present shadows underneath her eyes. Some things, he assumed, never went away.

"Your face is healing nicely," he commented, skimming his gaze along every inch of her expression.

Camille instinctively touched the corner of the eye that had been bruised. "Thank you."

It became silent again, and Camille wondered what exactly she was here for. Bane never really sent for her for idle conversation. There was always something he needed her to do for him. But he only kept staring at her face, making her feel a little tense and anxious. She didn't want a repeat of last night, didn't want to stand here in silence with him until those annoying flips inside her body irritated her again. She reminded herself that she was done with mistakes, had to be done with them.

"Do you need me for something?"

Bane found his eyes skimming along her curls, her very long, very black curls. Then they moved to her lips, those pouty lips that seemed to irritate him more than anything, and told himself that what had to be done was best, because he couldn't take the annoyances of her any longer.

"I sent for you," he began, turning away from the monitors so that they wouldn't become a distraction. "to tell you that you are no longer needed here."

For one second she thought maybe the time she feared would arrive had come, that he would dispose of her permanently because he had found someone else to do the job. Camille had worried that he would kill her when she would no longer be useful to him, and then had accepted it because it could very well happen. But because he had yet to move, had yet to order someone to do the deed for him, she grew confused and even more anxious than before.

"What are you saying?" she asked him.

"I'm telling you that you are free to go, Camille."

Her entire body stilled as she stared at him, the only thing she could feel was the heart beating inside her chest. She waited for him to laugh at her, waited for him to correct himself and tell her what he really needed to tell her. But the only thing she could take in was the serious set of his eyes, and the fact that she had not misinterpreted him. It took her a beat or two to finally answer, to finally grasp the words he had said to her.

"I can go?" she asked softly, a little unsure.

Bane thought he could have laughed at her expression. Instead, he could only nod slowly. He watched as she took in a deep breath, and then stare at him blankly again. When she finally spoke, her words surprised both of them.

"You want me to leave?"

Bane looked away then, stared at the monitors in front of him. "I grant you freedom and you ask me that?"

Camille drew her brows together, still staring at him but thinking so many thoughts at the same time. She couldn't control her words, couldn't simply stay quiet and get away from this prison as quickly as she could. But her mouth was vomiting things she would think were unimaginable later, things that continued to surprise. "But what about you?"

He could have rolled his eyes. His maternal Dr. Lane. Just one more reason why she had to leave. "My body has adapted to the medicine properly. There is no need to change the canisters quite so frequently anymore."

Camille shook her head a little, still trying to accept his words and figure out why she was acting this way. This was what she had wanted, she told herself. This was what she thought would never happen. But it was happening, and she still was having trouble fully hearing him. "I'm _free_?"

Bane clenched his fist set in the brace that helped soothe him, and looked over at her again. He stepped a little closer, stared deeply at her confused and still accepting face, and told himself again that it was time for her to leave. She had to leave. "Unfortunately your freedom comes with one condition. I am to be given your word that you will not inform the police of my whereabouts." When she remained quiet, staring at him with those black eyes that always seemed so sad and searching, he continued. "You told me a long time ago that I could trust you. I'm trusting you now, Camille."

Suddenly, she felt awkward just standing there, her empty hands hanging at her sides, her face impassive and simply listening to him speak the words she thought she would never hear. Bane was telling her she could go. She could really go. And when she was given the condition of her freedom, she found that she was okay with it. But she was still oddly confused. And before she could mutter more silly words, he was speaking to her again.

"I've never been ungrateful," Bane murmured, standing a few steps away from her because he didn't want to be tempted to touch her skin, her hair, any part of her because it would be for the last time. She had to leave. "But I avoid owing people, if I can. And… I know you genuinely helped me a great deal while I was held in the asylum. And for that, I give you your freedom now. Mister Lane will remain unharmed, and you may go back to your life, without me."

Camille stared at him, and finally accepted every single word. She was free. She could leave and never have to return here. Jackson would be safe, she was safe. And Bane would become nothing but a long string of bad decisions. She could return to her world, to her city, to her home. She could go back to work and forget about the man who had kidnapped her, forget about the man she had been through so much with. She could forget about the patient she'd been given so long ago who had changed everything, who had made her question so much.

Bane saw the moment she fully understood him in her eyes, and also knew that she would agree to the term of her freedom. He didn't want to know why she would agree, didn't want to hear her reasons for it. But he knew she would remain quiet about where he was hiding away so that she could return to the world that had been so cruel to her. He wanted her to leave so that he would stop feeling so irritated around her. He wanted her to leave so that he would stop thinking about so much.

Camille suddenly didn't know what to say to him. She thought maybe a weird thank you was in order, but before she could open her mouth Bane turned away from her, his boots stomping along the concrete as he left his room, exiting through the curtain in the entranceway. She watched him go, realized that she had watched him leave her alone in a room so many times, and discovered that this would be the last time. She could leave.

She was free.

* * *

It was an oddly strange feeling, packing up all her things in the room she had lived in for so long. This time, she wouldn't simply be moving to another location because Bane had told her that was what they were doing. This time, she was leaving because he'd said he didn't need her anymore, leaving because she had been given the freedom she thought she would never have again. And as Camille stuffed as many of her things as she could inside the one duffle bag she'd taken from her home, she wondered where exactly she was going to go.

The obvious choice would be to simply go back to her apartment, and inform the police that she was no longer a captive of the man they hunted. Of course, they would ask her a million questions, trying to get one step closer to catching Bane, one step closer to riding him of the world permanently. She would tell the police that she had been locked up the entire time, and hadn't seen where exactly he had kept her, that she had no information for them because Bane hadn't allowed her to gain any. And after many, many more questions later, they would eventually let her go. She would be able to go back home, go back to work and continue the life that her last patient had interrupted because of his needs.

Camille pulled on her black leather jacket, and glanced over at the dresser where her flower continued to rest. Slowly, she walked over, picked it up to smell it again. And tucked it safely away within her bag so that it wouldn't become damaged.

She didn't want to leave without it.

And if she thought that packing had been strange, she felt even stranger when she exited the underground complex of the abandoned thirty year old amusement park. She'd left by herself, no escort because Bane had told her of his trust, no questions or glances from his men because they knew she was now allowed to leave and would never have to come back. She simply walked away from the hideout she would keep a secret because it was the only thing Bane had asked of her, her heavy bag over her shoulder and her boots clicking along the concrete.

Her mind suddenly shut off all thoughts as she walked further and further away. And until she was back within the city she'd been absent from for so long, until she finally felt the sting of the very cold air on her face and the whip of the wind in her hair, did she look around and take it what had been lost.

Camille glanced around at the familiar buildings of Gotham City, listened to the honks of impatient cars and the arguments of pedestrians and drivers. She stared at the carts selling various snacks and meaningless tourist gifts, at the scantily clad freezing women on the corners offering a night of pleasure, their breath forming into fog in front of them as they shivered on the street. She had once driven through this city, she thought to herself. She would see the lights, the people, the deals, and the dregs, and tell herself that this was the only home she knew.

This was the place she had lived in all her life, with its dirt and its drama, its brilliance and its giant streak of nasty. Whores and hustlers, the weary and the wealthy. This was what she had been taken from.

And Camille found that she didn't want to go home just yet.

She set her bag on the ground, dug inside until she pulled out her long black scarf, wrapped it around her head and stuffed her hair inside. She had to remember that the police were still looking for her. Everyone was still looking for her because she was the only known hostage Bane had taken. And because she didn't want to go home, didn't want to delve back into her world right now, she knew she had to be kept somewhat concealed. She reached into her bag again, reached far inside the ripped lining until her fingers grasped onto what she needed, and pulled out the wad of cash she'd taken from her stashed savings the night Bane had told her to pack back in her apartment so long ago. She had roughly five hundred dollars to last her until she decided it was time to go back to society, the only savings she had after she'd left her family, and Jackson had left her.

One of the hookers on the street was calling to her now, telling Camille that for the right price she could be into women. Camille gave her a look, and walked off.

Dirt and drama. Whores and hustlers. Weary and wealthy. It was all Gotham would ever be.

* * *

After much walking, Camille found a somewhat decent hotel that accepted cash, and a simple name. She knew she could never stay at one of the low-end, decrepit motels by herself, not without some kind of protection. She knew what really went on in places like those. And even though she was a humble woman who knew what it was like to live in poverty, she knew that to stay in one of Gotham's cheap motels was just asking for trouble, trouble like rape and robbery.

But the hotel she'd chosen was decent enough. She gave the receptionist a fake name with a fake accent, keeping her hair hidden underneath the scarf and her eyes covered with pointless sunglasses just in case the staff recognized her from the news. Camille found her room, unlocked it with the key card, and glanced around at the unimpressive, very forgettable space that she'd chosen to hide away in until she was ready to go back to regular life. The room was decorated in boring earth tones, a simple bed, dresser, and small table the only furniture, along with the television. She walked to the window after dropping her heavy bag onto the floor and peaked out of the curtain at the city skyline. She looked down from the fifth floor window, watched a few people go by.

And felt very alone.

Camille found that she couldn't sleep in the hotel bed, could barely eat the food they provided, and broke out in redness from their bathing products. The hotel was a place that was doing nothing for her, even though she was free from obligation and threatening mercenaries roaming the halls that she had become oddly used to. And when she would leave, making sure that certain attributes of herself were concealed or covered, she walked the streets of her city, and did the things she wanted to do simply because she could now.

The days went on in a boring fashion as Camille continued to live in the hotel. She went shopping with her savings, continuing to use the same fake name and accent when asked, spending her only money on things like new clothes, shoes, and even a new lipstick or two. She stuffed herself with fattening foods and a ton of coffee since Bane had never had those types of nourishments around. She went to a secondhand salon, one whose employees were way too young and carefree to spend their free time watching such programs as the news and the progress of Bane's investigation, and gave in to girly temptations. Camille got her hair blow dried, her eyebrows tinted, her nails done and painted a cherry red. She even let one of the newer employees, so fresh out of beauty school she still had her books with her, give her a Brazilian wax because she wanted to feel as fresh and clean and spotless as possible. She wanted to feel new, she wanted to feel different. Camille halfheartedly smiled at the nervous girl who was waiting on feedback and told her she did a great job, and that she was happy with the results. It hadn't hurt that bad either.

The salon's receptionist, with her short hair cut crazily into one of those artsy styles hair dressers were always giving each other, chewed her gum loudly as she took Camille's money and asked, "Doin' all this for your man?"

Camille looked down her pants to make sure she wasn't bleeding and answered, "No." After taking her change, her next words surprised her. "I left him."

She spent her nights simply walking the streets she'd known all her life. She knew it wasn't very smart for a woman like her to casually stroll the threatening and sometimes deadly streets of Gotham at certain times of the night. It wasn't smart for any woman at all. But Camille found that she didn't care. She'd seen worse, had been thrust into the world Gotham knew as home. And even though she was now out of that world, she felt oddly disconnected from everything around her.

Camille wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stay warm within her leather jacket and matching gloves, the scarf around her neck and her curls clipped up to stay safe from the piercing wind. Her boots clicked along the sidewalk as she looked inside various shops, ignoring the howl of sirens and the screech of tires as the police rushed off the save someone from some kind of terrible fate. She passed a dark alley in the cold, heard soft whimpering.

Glancing its way, Camille saw a woman lying on the wet ground. Her clothes were torn, her purse emptied, her tears running down her freezing face with a bloody lip. The woman had curled her limps up to her chest, shivering, crying because she was hurt and cold, robbed and probably worse. The woman noticed Camille staring at her, made eye contact, and continued to whimper.

As she looked at the broken woman, Camille knew how she was feeling. She knew what it was like to feel used up and hurt, stolen from and left all alone. But this was what Gotham did to people, she told herself, ignoring the muffled, indecipherable words of the woman. Even with all its police, all its detectives and commissioners, all its hero's and foolish masked men, Gotham still would take this one, weak woman and break her, use her until there was nothing left.

Bane had once told her that this city hated both of them. She knew he was right at the time, but now she was seeing the pure truth of his words crumbled right before her.

Camille frowned at the woman, and simply walked away.

* * *

She stayed in bed the entire next day, five days after she had left Bane, wearing nothing but a pair of new lacy panties and the blankets around her body to keep the cold away. Camille had closed the curtains so that what little sun peaked through the gray clouds of Gotham wouldn't bother her, had made sure that the window was fully secured so that she wouldn't have to hear the sirens from outside. And when she got bored, she turned on the television and watched the news, digging into her shopping bags for entertainment.

Camille sat on her uncomfortable bed, her face slathered in a green face mask and her hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head. She read the headlines travelling across the bottom of the screen, didn't care that there was now an outbreak of looting because of the much anticipated Fashion Week going on, and waited for the face mask to set upon her skin. She reached for the trusty bag of chocolates that had become her lunch, and unwrapped a few as she half listened to more people crying about how terrible their life was.

And when a certain name was mentioned, her eyes snapped up, her mouth full of chocolate. When a certain face was suddenly plastered on the screen, she felt her chest constrict.

There was Bane, on the news as he always was, a clip of him being played from so long ago when he stood in front of Blackgate Prison to free the men he said had been wrongly accused. The news anchor spoke over him, informing the public on new occurrences with his attempted capture, but there he was. Dressed as he was always dressed, speaking as he was always speaking, the dominant force that had slipped into Gotham like a shadow and changed everything they knew. Another clip was then showed of him. Bane was now lying on concrete steps and being frantically worked upon by rushing paramedics, trying to get his massive, broken body into an ambulance and sedated, the blast of a powerful cannon evident along his skin.

Camille suddenly turned the television off. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to see him mighty and in control or broken and bloody. She didn't want to hear his voice in her head or remember his hands on her body. She didn't want to feel that constricting tightness in her chest whenever her eyes would glance at him, or the irritating flutter in her lower stomach every time he would pass her by. She didn't want to remember the struggles, the temptations, the words they had spoken to each other. She didn't want to remember him at all because now she was suddenly so sad.

She wanted her old life back. She suddenly wished she had answered Bane differently on that last night, and wished she really could go back in time. But instead of going back to the night of the sex she'd said she didn't regret, she wanted to go all the way back to when she'd been offered the opportunity to treat Bane, and simply refuse. She felt like a different woman now, because she felt a little differently towards everything. Her time with Bane had changed her, made her realize so much about herself, made her come to terms with things she'd left buried for so long.

Ignorance had been bliss for her, and she wished right now she could go back to being ignorant.

Camille suddenly sprung from her bed, went to the bathroom to wash her face and put on some makeup, and quickly dressed.

She had to prove something to herself. She had to decide whether she was still the same old her inside herself, or if she had changed completely and permanently. She knew what to do to discover those truths, and she would get to the bottom of it tonight.

Her greatest test. Her true redemption.

She had to go see Jackson.

* * *

Camille trotted along as she made her way to her ex-husband's apartment, the night air freezing her face and her hair becoming more tangled in the cold wind. She rubbed her lips together against the cold, painted tonight the darkest red she owned, and held her leather jacket closed with her hand as she climbed the steps to his door.

Jackson had moved from the apartment they had shared into a much nicer one than Camille had lived in. He had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, each room styled perfectly by paid professionals because his college professor parents had wanted him to live lavishly. He'd been given a beautiful view of the city through his large glass windows, the balcony furnished with the best chairs and tables money could buy. Camille stood in front of his large oak door, and wondered if she was dressed too formally.

It wasn't that she had dressed to impress him, she told herself, looking down to watch the way the long black skirt of her strapless dress billowed in the wind. This was just Camille being Camille. She was more comfortable in a dress than anything else, and when concerning a meeting like this, she wanted to be as relaxed as she could be. To fight off the cold, she'd slipped on silky black thigh high's under her skirt, since the long slit in the side would reveal her leg too much, and had dressed her feet with new black pumps with chunky heels from one of her shopping trips. Other people would think she was too dressed up. But to Camille, she felt normal.

She hadn't bothered to remind herself that this new dress was very similar to the one she had been wearing the night Bane had lifted her against the wall and taken her body.

Camille rubbed her red lips together one more time before knocking on the door, and waited to see the face that had once caused her so much grief.

Jackson answered the door lazily, dressed casually and cozily in sweats and a t-shirt, his long, lean body looking trim and relaxed. He'd tied his long brown hair back into a ponytail, his equally brown eyes a little distant at first before he got a good look at who exactly was now visiting him. Those brown eyes widened when he saw Camille, shocked and a little confused.

"_Camille_? Holy shit, Camille, are you okay?"

Camille opened her mouth to reply to him but was swiftly pulled inside his home and into his arms.

"God, Camille, what did that bastard _do_ to you? How did you escape? Did they catch him?"

She remained still in his arms, feeling the long length of them holding her against him, breathing in the scent of him she had once known all too well. A little awkwardly, she answered, "No. He let me go."

"For the love of God, Camille, do you know what the news has been saying? The police came here after they found out he took you and questioned me. They told me that he was torturing you and raping you, and that I needed to corporate if I wanted to see you again. Even that Nightwing guy has been looking for you. I gave them all I could but you never talked to me about him."

Camille narrowed her eyes and decided to ignore what the news and police were telling the people of Gotham about her. Instead, she focused on Jackson. "I wanted to see you," she told him.

Jackson pulled her away from his chest and looked down at her, his handsome face with the sharp angles and high cheekbones she had once loved so much. "I think I should take you to the hospital. We should leave right now."

"Wait, Jackson," Camille protested, pulling her arm away from his grasp as he tried to bring her to the door. "I don't want to go there. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. Look at you. You look exhausted. I've never seen you this way."

Camille furrowed her brows a little, tried not to let the comments bother her, those sneaky little comments he always sent her way. "I don't want to go to the hospital. I just… wanted to see you. Can't you just… hold me for a minute?"

Jackson let out a sigh and rubbed his hair back, a sign she knew indicated that he was nervous. He reached for her arm again, frowned at her when she pulled away. "Don't be difficult, sweetheart. You've been through too much. We need to leave."

Camille stared at him, reminded herself why she was here in the first place. She had once loved this man with every breath in her body. She had left her family for him, put him at the center of her world because she no longer had to be trapped inside her mother's home when he asked her to marry him. She had cared for Jackson in a way she'd never cared for anyone else before. She had let that love consume her, and destroy her when he decided to divorce her. She'd almost died in an all-consuming depression because of the love she once valued so long ago, the man she had given everything to. She had come here for resolution, had come here to prove and accept. She needed it because she was so very confused.

"Jackson," she murmured, keeping her eyes on him as he began to pace in front of the door he kept trying to bring her to. She took a deep breath before she continued. "Did you look for me?"

He stopped and glanced at her then, his eyes searching, his head thinking, his sigh alone telling her what she feared was the truth, but knowing that truth at the same time. He rubbed his hair back again, sighed deeply, and held his hands out to her in surrender.

"There really wasn't much I could do…"

She braced for the familiar heartbreak, almost needing it to feel like herself. And when it didn't come, she grew confused with herself. Something else was simmering inside of her, something she'd never felt when concerning her ex-husband. Something that was more familiar with another man, and not so much this one. A door behind her squeaked, one of the bedrooms doors inside Jackson's apartment. Camille spun around.

Standing in Jackson's bedroom doorway was a very tall, very lovely, trim woman, her bouncy hair the color of wheat and her clear and smooth looking skin a beautiful chocolate brown. She was at least five foot ten, her body long and perfectly skinny to accommodate her height, her limbs lanky and endless. Camille stared at her, at the big shirt on her body she knew belonged to Jackson and the mile long bare legs underneath, and sucked in a breath.

"Who's this?" the woman asked Jackson with a lovely British accent, nodding her head at Camille.

Jackson stared at Camille as she slowly looked back at him, opening his mouth and then closing it, trying to find the words. "She's, uh… This is my…" He coughed into his hand nervously, shifting on his feet. "Ex-wife."

"Oh," the woman replied smoothly and almost cheerfully. She smiled at Camille and then said to Jackson, "Come back to bed."

"Be right there," he answered in a small voice, and waited for her to return into his bedroom. He regarded Camille once she was gone, eyeing her carefully. "That was Portia," he said, talking more to himself than to her. "She's here from England for Fashion Week. She's one of the models."

Camille remembered that last night in her apartment with Bane, the night Jackson had showed up on her doorstep drunk and wanting a free night of pleasure from her. She remembered the phone call he'd taken while she'd been trying to get him to go away so that he would be safe, and realized now that this Portia had been that same woman to call him. While Camille had been frantically trying to keep him safe from the man who would kidnap her, he had been making plans with the same woman who was sleeping here with him now. Camille had sold her soul so that he would remain unharmed.

And he had done nothing but fraternize with his model friend.

"I was kidnapped," she said to him lowly, her voice soft and knowing, her words true and realized. "I was kidnapped by _Bane_. The police speak to you of rape and torture. I was missing for _weeks_. And yet here you are, _fucking_ some model while knowing I had been taken, going to your fancy little Fashion Week parties while I was out there."

"Camille, stop," Jackson breathed, exasperated because he really didn't want to handle this right now. "You're hysterical. I'll call you a cab to bring you to the hospital."

Her black eyes widened, and she suddenly knew what had replaced the usual heartache. An anger so deep and hot reared its head inside her, tearing through her for the man who had once been everything to her. She didn't know if she could handle it, didn't know what exactly to do with it. But as he stood there, looking like she was simply ruining his night with her drama, she knew exactly what to do. Something that should have been done a long time ago. Something, she realized, she desperately needed to free herself completely.

"I hate you," she murmured, letting out a small relieving breath once the words were said, surprising herself because they were suddenly so very true, something she'd been waiting on for years. And here it was. That release. "I _hate_ you."

That freedom.

"Don't say something you'll regret later," he said, shaking his head at her with pity.

Camille slowly walked up to him, her heels clicking softly on the tile, her eyes focused and finally seeing for the first time in seven years. "I regret plenty," she said.

Her clenched fist connected with his face with a speed she didn't think herself capable of, and a strength she never knew existed. Jackson fell to the floor at her feet with a yelp, clutching the nose that was now spilling blood all over his fancy clothes, all over his expensive apartment. He moaned when he saw the blood, and stared up at her with a mutinous glare.

"You bitch," he breathed, holding his face with his red hands as his blood ran down his chin. "You broke my nose… You broke my _fucking_ _nose_!"

"Shut up!" she hissed, ignoring the model Portia as she hurriedly raced back to the doorway. Camille stood above Jackson, looking down at the person she could finally be free from, the person she now hated because he could no longer keep her down with wishes and wanting. "You are a horrible, _sad excuse_ for a man. And I hate you. You do _not_ deserve me."

Jackson moaned into his hand again, completely distraught that his face was now ruined, that his complexion would be marred. Portia held the doorframe and watched, little gasps escaping past her lips from the scene. And Camille could only glare at her ex-husband, finally ridding herself of the disease that had broken her one too many times.

"By the way," she said to him, pushing him back onto the floor when he tried to rise, and stared deeply into his hurting face. "I _let _Bane fuck me. And you need to come to terms with how _small_ you really are. That's my professional opinion for you, _cupcake_."

"You're crazy," he hissed at her, completely mortified and shaking because of his ruined, broken nose. "My mother always said you were crazy!"

"Yeah, well your mother's a _whore_."

Jackson flinched as his eyes widened. Camille watched him search for the nearest phone, knowing he was planning to call the police on the woman they were still looking for, and to tell them that rape was no longer an issue. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"I would keep quiet about this if I were you, Jackson," she said calmly, standing up straight and composing herself from her anger. "Who knows what Bane will do to you if you ruin his plans. I was never here," she said to him sternly, and removed her gaze off the pitiful man beneath her and onto the woman behind her.

"I hope you used protection," Camille told Portia sweetly, then looked back down at Jackson for the very last time. "He's very fertile."

Camille didn't stay long enough to see Portia's face pale considerably. She slammed the door behind her and trotted down the steps into the bitter cold of Gotham, stopping on the sidewalk and finally feeling a long deserved breath leave her body.

She didn't have to love Jackson anymore. She could finally leave that part of her past behind, finally wave it away with relief because she had found the strength to rid him from her heart. Jackson had never been good for her, had never felt the same way for her as she had for him. She had once thought him to be her savior, rescuing her from her family and taking her away from her mother. But leaving with Jackson had only caused more problems inside of her. She had loved him to the point of depression, and had never gotten anything in return. He had left her and had a helping hand in her darkest hour. He had never deserved her because he hadn't wanted to love her the way she should have been loved by her husband. And now, Camille told herself, she could purge him from her system. She had severed the hold he'd had on her heart.

She had broken the soul tie, and could be truly free.

Camille looked up at the black sky of Gotham, and could never remember feeling so disconnected from the only home she'd ever known. She watched as the first flurries of snow drifted down from the clouds, landing on her shoulders and in her hair. She suddenly didn't know what to do. She didn't want to go back to the boring hotel room. She didn't want to go back home yet and resume her old life. She knew she would have to go back eventually, but she didn't want to right now. She wanted to go _somewhere_, and nowhere seemed appealing.

Camille realized she felt separate from everything around her. Bane had ruined her for the world with his true words and his forced realizations. No one had come to look for her except those who got paid to do it. No one would miss her if she were to suddenly disappear. No one had remembered her when she'd been a lost little girl at home, trying to fight against the cruelties of her own mother. She had only wanted to make life work for her. But nothing worked, because she wasn't living. All she had was a life full of regrets.

Camille looked up at one of the many rooftops of Gotham, and squinted a little through the falling snow. She saw a man running, a very lean and athletic man hopping from rooftop to rooftop, running towards the ever present sirens of the city. She realized that it was the Nightwing that was rushing off to save the people who would never deserve his efforts, never fully appreciate him because this world was unforgiving. She watched him as he ran closer to danger, and pitied him.

Time didn't belong to her anymore. Time didn't belong to the women who had been left to endure a cruel life at the hands of others, a life full of loneliness because everyone else had left. Real time, the moments that mattered, belonged to those who could go home to happiness and love and support. Time stopped for people like Camille, for people like that battered woman from the dark, haunting alley. And soon, it simply didn't exist.

Camille didn't want to go home. She didn't want to go back to life. The snow fell around her, making her shiver, making her wish for the heat of someone who had been lost in the dark with her.

There was only one place she wanted to be.

**TBC**

**A/N: I like to think of Camille as a woman's woman. She has a little bit of us all in her, helping us relate and understand, to feel and to accept. And now that she has finally found her freedom, we can travel another exciting road with her as she discovers who she really is. The next chapter will be very exciting for everyone, and the next song lyric will definitely clue you in to what will happen as soon as you read it. Thank you for all your reviews, my precious darlings! Keep sending me more.**


	20. Poison

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 20**

**Poison**

"_I hear you calling and it's needles and pins. I want to hurt you just to hear you screaming my name." – Alice Cooper _

It was hard to enjoy the daylight. Not that Bane cared very much for the sun, even if it had become overpowered by the gray clouds of a Gotham City winter. And because practically the entire city's police force - not be mention the new masked vigilante - was out looking for him and his men, anything they could get their hands on concerning him, he couldn't spend that much time aboveground without the worry of being seen, followed, and then caught. And while he thought he had enough men, vehicles, and weapons at his disposal now to heed them off and escape them once again, he figured it would be too much of an unnecessary hassle to find another location and restock it after the police would ransack his current one. And for those reasons, Bane didn't turn to the daylight when he needed a time of peace.

The nights were much more familiar.

Bane stood on the roof of an old abandoned building by himself, his long brown coat keeping him warm as the snow fell around him, and watched the night sky as the stars glittered, as the clouds travelled, and as the darkness consumed.

He had begun to feel antsy inside his underground hideout for the last few nights. And when the feeling of simply wanting to get away arose within him, he would come here and look up to the sky. It oddly calmed him, the sight of the vast black above that had become an anchor to almost every man who had been imprisoned within the pit. The sky had become a promise to them, the tempting exit from their hell. Bane could remember countless nights of looking up at the sky at night, holding little Talia in the crook of his arm as they watched the shooting stars soar by with an envied freedom. Talia had told him one night that she wished she could become a shooting star, the thought of doing nothing but flying through space making her smile, warming his heart because he wished he could turn her into that shooting star so she could soar off and away from hell.

He had yet to see any shooting stars in Gotham.

Bane felt the stresses of his body leave him as he watched the sky, breathed in the fresh, cold air of the night.

He found it odd that he had not seen a breaking news report on the return of his one and only captive. Because they liked to remain up to date on the progress of the police's efforts, Bane and his men were always watching the news. And after a couple of days had passed with still no report on Camille, he wondered if they were keeping her return a secret. She would have obviously had to go to the police station after she'd left him to let them know that they no longer had to waste time looking for her and could concentrate more on other matters. So why hadn't the news team reported of her being brought safely back home? Why were they still running her face and that silly telephone number if she'd already been set free?

But, he told himself as his mind started to wander, it was something he shouldn't be bothering with. He didn't need to concern himself with Camille anymore because he had gotten rid of her, because he didn't know how to handle her when she'd become too annoying. He didn't need to wonder why she wasn't being interviewed about her stay with him. He didn't need to ponder over what exactly she was doing at the moment her face would creep into his mind. She was gone because he wanted her to be gone. She'd left because he had given her the freedom anyone in her situation would want.

_You want me to leave?_

Bane shook his head, causing snow to fall onto his shoulders and trying to make her voice leave his head. Of course he wanted her to leave. She would still be with him right now if he hadn't. She had just been another hassle to worry about, just as Barsad had said she was. She'd just been another worry to take into consideration because she couldn't leave in case she would go to the police with their location. She was too snippy at times, and too smart. She was too comfortable around an army of terrible men because she'd accepted what they could do to her. She yelled at him, tempted him, angered him.

She'd been gone for days and Bane still felt that bug he'd only associated with Camille crawl underneath his skin.

He could admit to himself now that he had wanted her. He'd already had her and he still felt the need for more. He tried to tell himself it was only because Camille had been the only woman around him since the day he'd been sent to Arkham Asylum. He'd never spent so much time with another woman before, one who wasn't Talia. Every other woman he'd known in the past had been for a very short amount of time. And because he'd wanted Talia so badly when he had to be around her every day back during their time in the League of Shadows, he could only assume that the same thing applied to Camille and the asylum.

Now, he couldn't have Talia because she was dead. And he couldn't have Camille because she was gone. His doctor had been gone for only a few days.

Bane felt like he hadn't seen her in years.

He watched a plane fly by in the night sky, its lights blinking so that it could be seen as he remembered how those few days had been going. He could remember how annoyed he would be with himself when he'd almost called for her when he needed something. He could remember how he'd somehow ended up in her empty room with the broken door because his feet had brought him there during the late hours of the nights he couldn't sleep. One day, he'd been so exhausted from those sleepless nights, too tired to gather the energy to eat his food, that he closed his eyes and realized he was unintentionally waiting for Camille to remove his mask for him, just like she used to do.

He wondered where his impeccable self-control and independency had run off too, and decided that they needed to return right away. He was not dependent on Camille because he'd never allowed himself to depend on anyone. He couldn't depend on her because it wasn't who he was. She'd only spoiled him temporarily during his time in the asylum and after leaving it, and soon he would return to normal because he _had_ to. He didn't need Camille to take care of him anymore.

Bane watched the sky for a little longer, felt that tonight it wasn't calming him as much it normally did, and turned to the exit so that he could go back underground.

He'd lasted _years_ without Camille, his entire life without the feeling of her tending to him. And yet these last five days without her had seemed so very… different.

He didn't like it very much.

After returning to the underground complex on the night of Gotham's first snow of winter, Bane still wasn't feeling very relaxed. He thought physical activity would soothe him, but exercising only quickened his heart along with his other insides. He thought work would calm his racing mind, but it only made him feel more uncomfortable. Barsad had lead a huge debriefing with the rest of the army that Bane had sat in on, but it only made him want to pace. Meditation wasn't working, trying to sleep was pointless, reading was only jumbling his already jumbled mind. He was still restless, still antsy. He could barely make any decisions because he just couldn't seem to think straight. Usually that only happened when he was running extremely low on his medicine. But he had plenty left, and the reason for how he was feeling tonight was still out of reach.

Bane decided that he needed nourishment. He stripped off his coat as Illyas and Barsad sat at the monitors in his large room, discussing the plans that had been decided earlier. Barsad was cleaning one of his favorite rifles as Illyas watched the screens. And when Illyas sat up further in his chair, calling for Bane to see what he was seeing, all three men stared at the screen, Bane's large body standing behind and over the other two sitting in the chairs.

"Should I have someone send her away?" Illyas asked, looking up at his leader.

Bane ignored him for a moment and simply stared at the security monitor. Apparently the outside world hadn't been very gratifying.

He watched as Camille walked down the long, decrepit driveway of their hideout, keeping her normal fast pace in the chunky heels that always seemed to be on her feet. Once again in another dress, the long black skirt of it billowed behind her as she made her way down the decline of the concrete, taking a few cautious steps in her heels so that she wouldn't stumble. Her dark hair was sprinkled with snow flurries, the red of her lips standing out in the choppy footage. Behind her she wheeled a much larger suitcase than the simple duffel bag she had left with, one that seemed packed to the brim with all the things she thought she needed. Bane squinted at her face on the monitor and felt complete surprise, something that was usually a rarity for him.

He'd told her to leave, yet here she was after only five days. He'd told her that she was no longer needed, yet her face lacked any hesitancy from the approaching location. He'd given her freedom, yet she was hastily making her way back to what she had thought of as a prison.

Barsad and Illyas were waiting on him for orders. He thought just seeing Camille return was somewhat shocking. But his answer to his men surprised him even more.

"Let her through," he told them.

* * *

Her feet were starting to ache from all the walking, not only because of the distance but because of the heels too. Camille could usually last much longer in the lifts than most women, but because of the cold and the snow, and because she had walked all the way from her boring hotel room back to the underground complex, the usual pains that came along with such shoes was starting to take its toll on her feet. Her legs felt frozen to the bone, snow that ended up melting was sliding inside her curls, and the suitcase she'd brought with her was starting to make the muscles in her shoulders ache.

But even through all of that, she kept pushing forward. Not once did she stop on her journey to rest her feet, to roll her shoulders, to fix the scarf around her neck so that it could warm her more efficiently. She knew where she wanted to be. And she was almost there.

The fingers of her right hand were starting to feel sore from hitting Jackson in the face hard enough to make him bleed. She knew the knuckles were a tad bit swollen and red, the feeling of actually punching someone completely foreign to her body, but she didn't care. She would deal with such trivialities when the rush within her eased. But it was at full force right now, and all she could see was her final destination. She didn't even wonder why she wasn't being stopped by the few men she would pass in her haste, didn't even register if one of them had said something to her. They were completely invisible as she trotted on, her eyes straying nowhere but the path ahead of her, the only sound she seemed to hear the rolling wheels of the suitcase she still pulled. And even when she saw that curtain that separated her from what she needed to see, the makeshift door slightly pulled back for entrance, she continued on. She rushed through, dropped the handle of her suitcase.

She took two steps, stopped. And stared.

She found Bane sitting on a small stool a few feet away from her, a small wheeled cart pulled up to his side along with the IV stand she had built for him. His back was to her, somewhat hunched as he held the tubes to the IV within his arm as he injected his regular morphine, the clear, soothing medicine flowing through the tubes and steadily into his vein. Camille knew he was aware of her presence. Bane always knew everything. And while she had rehearsed the words she would speak to him once she arrived, she found that those words had vanished upon entering his room and seeing him after only five days.

Camille stared at his back, shirtless and bulging with the hard muscles of his body, the scars that travelled along his skin visible in the dim light of the room. She'd seen his bare upper body countless times in the past, had always hated how nervous and insecure she would feel while in his presence at the time. But right now she didn't feel that way at all. Right now, she could only look, and admire. Her stomach twisted inside her body, her fingertips started to sizzle. She found that she wasn't ignoring those effects of her body like she normally would. She was free now. She was completely unattached to the ties of her heart concerning someone who shouldn't have tied her to begin with. She had realized truths about herself, accepted them, embraced them.

It wasn't going to simply stop with Jackson.

Camille continued to let her eyes travel along his skin without the past hesitation. Too much had happened tonight to make her question her motives. Bane was the one to speak first, his deep voice sending soft shivers down her spine from the deprivation of it.

"Were you not satisfied with freedom?" he asked her, keeping his eyes down at the needle inside his arm, his back still turned to her.

Camille didn't know how she should answer that, so she didn't. Instead, she slowly began walking forward, the click of her heels and the hissing of his mask the only sounds in the room. Bane didn't move as she slowly approached him, didn't even flinch when her fingertips on one hand connected with his skin, the long thick scar that ran down his spine. She started where it began, right below the straps of his mask on the back of his neck, and slowly trailed her fingertips down, her eyes watching the paths of her fingers intently. Bane continued to remain still, continued to remain silent as she touched his spine, all the way down until she met the hem of his back brace. Her mind seemed clouded. She only wanted to touch him, hadn't been able to touch him this way because she had always stopped herself from doing so. Her fingers slowly worked their way back up his spine, only to begin the path again and touch the other scars along his back.

His skin was so hot, so warm against her own icy hands. She had never known anyone else to be so solid. She ran her hands along the back of his ribs, felt the muscles that were so threatening to the rest of the world. How could she have never touched him like this before? How could she know that this body, so hard and so large, was something she'd been craving to feel without any kind of hesitation or insecurity? Camille stepped closer to his back, set her palms on his strong shoulders. She leaned forward, rested her forehead on the back of his head along the mask.

"I'm cold," she whispered, and moved her hands over his shoulders and onto his chest, sliding them down slowly until she couldn't reach anymore.

Bane felt his abs constrict as he watched her hands move along the front of him, those feminine hands with the long cherry red nails. His fist clenched as more surprise flooded him. He'd been alarmed to see her here to begin with. And when she'd started touching him, he didn't know what to do. He'd always known how Camille felt when it came to subjects like this between the two of them. He had known that she tried to mask her wanting for him with the comparison of right and wrong. But now that she had returned, touching him now with her probing hands, he wondered what had caused her to change.

Her face moved down to the side of his neck now, her breath hot against his skin. He'd once told Camille that he had never had to force a woman when it came to physical needs. But if she didn't stop soon, it would come to a point of no return.

"You are very close to making another… mistake, Camille."

Camille leaned forward far enough so that she could run her hands all the way down to the front of his back brace. She took in his words, found the ones she wanted to reply to him, and pressed her nails into his stomach to trail them back up his chest.

"Life is full of mistakes," she murmured against him, repeating those same words he had said to her that last night on her bed.

Bane's eyes flashed at her remark, his mask hissing loudly, finally receiving the words, the confirmation he needed. As she continued to move her nails along his skin, he calmly looked over to where he knew Barsad was standing, almost as if on guard. Bane simply gave him a look and waited as Barsad reached for the curtain, stepping out and closing it completely, gesturing for a couple other men to walk away with him. After they were alone, Bane looked back down at the needle in his arm, pulled it out and stopped the small bleeding.

"Go wait for me over there," he told her, nodding his head to the desk in his room.

Camille ran her hands back up his chest, and regrettably left to go where he said to wait, knowing he had to eat or nourish his body in some way since he had injected morphine, the act itself surprising her because she had believed that he didn't know how to. Had he always known how to inject himself? She brushed it off and stood in front of his desk. She watched as Bane quickly removed his mask and reach for a nearby jug of cloudy water she knew was added with various vitamins and other supplements for his system. Her gaze dropped down to her feet as she leaned against the desk, waiting for him to drink his water to hydrate his body, wondering what she was doing.

Her hands felt hot from touching his skin.

Her mind began to drift as she looked at her shoes, hoping she wouldn't start to feel awkward, worrying that Bane hadn't wanted her to touch him. He had walked away from her so many times that the thought could be true. Should she leave? Should she apologize and go back home? She heard Bane walking towards her, the sound of his boots suddenly making her feel nervous and silly. She kept her eyes on her heels and wondered what she was doing here…

She jumped some as Bane dropped something heavy onto the desk behind her. Then her eyes widened when she discovered that it was his mask. His large hand suddenly took her jaw, lifted her face.

Camille felt her insides jolt as Bane kissed her lips.

Her breathing stopped. She felt paralyzed. She could only stare at his face as his lips moved over hers, those surprisingly full lips she had known since her first day on the job with him at the asylum. Her eyes looked down at his mouth, watched the way he sucked at her lips, removing all her faded lipstick, eating it so that nothing by a dark red stain remained. She didn't know if her heart had stopped. She couldn't feel anything but his mouth. She just stood there awkwardly, looking straight up because he was so very tall. And when he finished, he softly sucked at her bottom lip.

Camille looked into his eyes, those incredible eyes that were always so intense, that mouth that was always hidden because of his affliction. She clenched her jaw when she watched him lick at his own lips, almost like he were tasting her again, and felt that tightening in her lower stomach that had always confused her before when it came to him. But tonight seemed to be a night of realizations. And as she embraced what her body was feeling, something that had been coursing through her for a while now, she discovered what it was she had always felt since the first night she had seen him walking along his cell one late night without anything covering his upper body.

She had foolishly tried to ignore the lust she'd thought was wrong because of who he was. But she didn't ignore it now. Pure, hot desire took over her body, her insides rejoicing at the realization, her nerve endings springing to life, and shameless wanting consuming her completely. Her eyes darkened as she accepted her lust, and she knew exactly what she wanted.

Camille grabbed Bane by the back of the neck, and yanked his mouth back onto hers.

And just like that, they devoured. Her hands brought her body against his as he trapped her between the desk and his solid body, assaulting her mouth as she did the same to him, grabbing her at the ribs because he needed to feel her, needed to have some kind of control as she ate at his mouth. His tongue licked at her lips as she kissed him frantically, opening her mouth wider so they could taste each other, licking at the inside of his mouth because she had gone crazy. Bane reached up and pulled the scarf from her neck, then shrugged the leather jacket from her shoulders so that he could feel more of her skin. Blood drained out of his head and further down, left him buzzing, made him rasp lowly in his throat as those pouty lips of hers feasted at him, as his tongue tasted hers. His large hands ran down her sides slowly, over the lush curves of her hips that were pressing into his. He turned his palms, and then grasped at her bottom hard, making her moan into his mouth as he set her on the desk, stepping between her open legs as he hiked up the skirt of her dress.

Bane didn't want to leave her mouth. She almost didn't let him. But when he moved her dress up until it was over her breasts, he quickly removed his lips from hers just to pull it over her head. He didn't have time to look at her body. She was already devouring him again, a sound of desperation in her throat as she grasped at his waist, her thighs clenching around him. Bane took her black curls into his hands, pulling them as he kissed her.

Camille moved her hands up his chest and onto his head, feeling the skin she hardly ever saw, pawing at him everywhere because she now knew that she had lied to herself. She did want him. She wanted all of him because he drove her crazy. And when he suddenly grabbed her hips, tilted them up so that she fell back onto the desk, she felt all sanity leave her. Bane pulled on her hips again, bringing her pelvis directly up against his as he loomed over her body, and bumped against her. She sighed deeply at the feeling, wanting more, wanting to feel that without him wearing pants. Her wish was granted when he did it again… and again and again.

Bane ravished her mouth, the feeling of kissing a woman so foreign and so deprived to him. He couldn't remember the last time he had kissed and been kissed on the lips, couldn't remember if he'd ever experienced it before at all. He knew that he had never gotten the chance to kiss Talia, and his life before her was so distant in memory that it almost didn't exist. But when he had seen Camille standing where he'd told her to wait for him, when he realized that he had a few minutes without the mask, he could think of nothing but tasting her mouth, wanted nothing but to devour her. Separating for air was simply out of the question as they kissed. They breathed against each other's mouths, their wanting overpowering everything else.

Bane felt Camille wrap her legs around his waist, her black thigh highs still covering her and her heels still upon her feet. He pressed his pelvis against her again, heard her mewing underneath him, and filled his hands with her breasts still within her bra, squeezed until she arched her back in pleasure.

He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd taken off his mask. But he knew it hadn't been long enough when he felt the first aches of his familiar pain begin to come alive within him again. He continued to deeply kiss her, continued to rub his hips against hers. But he didn't have much time left to taste her. He could feel Camille growing more and more demanding underneath him, relished in the feeling that she was giving in to what her body had always wanted. She urgently sucked at his mouth, and made his body snap up when she bit down hard on his bottom lip.

Bane looked down at her as he rubbed his lips together, her bite stinging him more than what it actually was because his pain was coming back. He stared at Camille, at a new part of her he'd only seen a tiny spark of. Her already black eyes seemed blacker with lust, her lips pouting at him in desire, her body begging him to continue touching her, screaming at him so that she could touch him too. He saw now that she had kept this part of herself locked away, even while she'd been married. Deep down inside, she had always wanted to be an aggressive lover.

Bane decided that he could accommodate her just fine. He grabbed the front of her neck and leaned back down to kiss her again.

His mouth was so tasty, his lips so addicting that she didn't know how to handle it. She reached in with her tongue again, held him close as she felt his body start to tremble with the pain she knew was afflicting him now. But she couldn't stop kissing him, couldn't simply stop and tell him to put his mask back on. And when he started to pant softly against her mouth as the burning pain became almost too much to handle, he tried lifting himself away from her again.

"Not yet," she sighed and grabbed the back of his neck. "More."

Bane kissed her feverishly then. He nipped at her tongue, she bit at his lip. Even through the pain, he was kissing her as if he could swallow her whole. As if the universe centered on that one taste. Her head was spinning too fast for her to catch her own thoughts. She groaned deeply when Bane sunk his teeth into her bottom lip this time, pulled slightly, and then moved away to quickly put his mask back on.

Camille couldn't be disappointed because she wanted so much else. She stared up at him as he replaced his mask back onto his face, relief entering his eyes as he breathed his medicine, his body giving the usual jolt after he would be without it. She moved her gaze down his perfect body, landed on his pants, and lifted her spread legs into the air so that she could have better access to him. Reaching forward, she placed her hand on his crotch. Her eyes widened in anticipation as she felt his erection, knew that it was completely for her, and began moving her hand up and down his length through his pants.

Once his mask was back on, Bane took one of her calves into his hand, watched her palm touch him. Finally he could stare at her body lying on his desk, how willing and how urgent she was, wearing nothing but her underwear and the black thigh highs along with her heels, a look he was really starting to like. He ran his hands up her legs, spread them a little more in the air on either side of him as her fingers went to work on the button and zipper of his pants. He reached behind with one hand and removed his back brace himself, then groaned when she set his hard length free and began caressing him.

He'd already had her body once. But it had been so fast and so quick, neither of them able to enjoy foreplay, his own needs never being met because the only thing that had mattered was Camille's forced release. And to feel her hands on him now, pleasuring him because she truly wanted to, made his chest heave in desire, made him want to growl and take her roughly.

She touched his abs with one hand and his full erection with the other. His breaths started deepening as he pulled her flesh colored strapless bra down to her waist, finally seeing most of her body for the first time, wanting it even more. His eyes darkened when she squeezed him gently in the exact right spot, one of his hands holding her ankle as the other reached for her breast. He rubbed his hand firmly into her breast; his actions letting her know how much he was enjoying what she was doing to him. Camille watched his eyes as she pumped him slowly, biting her lip at him when he squeezed her breast again. Bane snarled at her in wanting, the sound making her shiver. They both wanted the same thing at that moment, both knew that they had to feel it because waiting much longer was too agonizing.

Bane looked down at her black lacy panties. He tried to ignore the sight of her hand working him, tried to focus on her center instead. He could physically see how ready Camille was for him, something she hadn't been the first time he had entered her body. Bane placed the tip of his middle finger against her panties where he knew her opening was, felt the hot wetness that beckoned him, seduced him with the feeling of her soaking panties. He pried her hand away from his erection, decided to keep her thigh highs and heels on as he peeled her panties off her legs. He remembered back to the last time he had touched her this way, remembered how she had bent herself forward, pressing her bottom into his crotch because that was what she had truly wanted.

Bane felt his pants slide further down his legs. Without waiting for her decision, he turned her body onto her stomach, ran his hands down her back before pulling her up to a standing position right in front of him. Camille growled in excitement, spread her heeled feet as Bane pulled her right up against his chest. He rubbed against her wetness, making her shiver as he brushed her longs curls away from her back so that he could feel every inch of her body against the front of him. He placed one of her knees onto the desk so that her legs could part even further, held onto her body as he positioned himself.

Camille squealed some as he mounted her from behind. Her walls stretched to fit him, her tight center expanding to take his length, a size she didn't think she could ever get used to because he was so _big_. Jackson had been nowhere as big as Bane. Her eyes widened when he pushed all the way to her limit, felt him trying to press further still. It was shocking to her system. It was painful because she was completely filled, understanding now that the last time they'd had sex he hadn't gone in as far as he could have. Any other woman would have told him to ease back.

Camille pressed her hips back onto his, and realized that pain with pleasure was something she could no longer live without.

Bane groaned against her as her wetness consumed him, warming him and holding him in the most perfect way. She was so tight, which made him want to ride her hard. And she was so wet, which made him want to make her scream.

He gave her a few moments to adjust before he took her waist and began moving inside her wet heat that was bringing him to lustful madness. And when he felt her urge him on, felt her brace herself for what she wanted, he started bucking into her faster, their vision blinding in a pleasurable haze, a quick walk through complete insanity. Camille made little sounds of urgency in her throat, wanting to feel the pain, wanting to feel how hot it could make her feel.

Bane grasped onto her breasts, pressed the mouthpiece of his mask against the side of her face as he rode her from behind, panting against her when he realized he wanted to hear her voice, wanted to hear her confess her lie and tell him the truth.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her face, squeezing her breasts harder when her own hands covered his, encouraging him that she loved this treatment.

"I want you," she moaned, squeezing his hands on her breasts as he pumped at her.

"Tell me again."

"I want you, Bane…" She whimpered and reached behind her to hold the back of his neck, panted some as he hit her limit repeatedly. "God, I want you so much…"

Bane moaned into her ear as she clenched around his cock, reaching up to grab her neck with one hand as the other took her thigh, keeping her legs spread so that he could pump inside her as far as he wanted to. He felt a growl vibrate in her throat underneath his hand, panted against her as he fucked her. He pushed her forward, forcing her to place her hands on the desk in front of her, making her moan again as he fisted her hair.

"Don't stop," she whispered and gasped, digging her fingers into the desk as she was bucked against the side of it. "Please don't stop…"

Bane then buried his face into her hair, breathing deeply into her curls as he listened to Camille moan for him. He'd know from the last time how loud she was during sex, didn't care if maybe she was being a little _too_ loud. He wanted to hear her more, wanted to hear the sounds of the pleasure she had tried to deny herself. Bane realized he needed more, needed to do exactly what it would take to make sure they could both empty completely this time, no climaxes forced or forgotten. He brushed Camille's knee off the desk and made her take one small step forward.

Camille squealed in desire as Bane pushed her none too gently onto the desk, her stomach and chest resting completely flat against the surface with his fist still lost in her hair. She was given no time at all before he started thrusting into her again…

Only this time it was different. This time, Bane made sure all of his length slid completely inside of her. This time, he pumped at her with a speed and a strength he hadn't used the first time. Camille's eyes widened as she realized that he'd been holding back from his natural rhythm. He thrust into her recklessly, grunting and groaning as he pressed into her lower back with his other hand, riding her the way he needed to ride her because this was the man who he really was.

She loved it.

"Just like that," she panted, her cheek resting against the desk with the rest of her body, that wonderful pressure building, building, building and making her shiver. "Keep going… Keep going!"

He was so close. He could feel it, needed to feel it, needed to empty himself inside her because he hadn't been able to last time. It had been too long for him, and he needed this. Her positioning now made it better for him, much more comfortable because she was so short and he didn't have to feel the aches in his back from her simply standing in front of him. He felt Camille's insides start to tighten around him, groaned against it and never eased up on his motions. Her body jerked up when he hit her sensitive spot just right, growled at her when he pushed her back down onto the desk by her hair. But she could only continue to moan for him, continue to urge him on and talk to him. He slammed his thighs against hers, pressed on her lower back, pulled at her hair, pumping himself with her so that they could come.

Camille felt it, whimpered and trembled when the pressure rose and overflowed, when the orgasm coursed through her body like blood. She squeezed her eyes shut, moaned loudly as she tightened even more around Bane, shivering as she finished with a force that completely overpowered the last time. Bane felt her ending, and continued to thrust into her like an animal until he felt his own release. His eyes widened as he pressed her body hard against the desk as he spilled inside of her, riding out his release with a loud groan, twitching some from a sensation he hadn't felt in so very long. After he finished, he let go of Camille's hair and leaned down, placing his forearms on either side of her body.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, catching their breath, coming down from the high of satisfying sex. When he felt her feet shift below him, the heels she still wore clicking because she was pressed between his body and the desk, he slowly pulled out of her.

Camille made a little sound of something between a soft groan and a sigh when he left her body, the sound of their combined releases softly dripping onto the floor. Her knees started to shake from the intensity of his thrusts, and she was thankful when Bane easily turned her back over onto the desk, stepping between her open thighs and looming over her again.

He stared down at her, at her pink cheeks and her panting mouth, looked into her glassy eyes that had burned with complete desire for him. Bane made her wrap her legs around his waist, feeling the tremble of them against him from exhaustion. Camille softly placed her fingertips on his chest, stared back into his eyes past the mask, and leaned up to softly kiss the mouthpiece. Bane remained still, knowing that she'd really wanted to kiss his lips but had to settle for the covering. He looked down at her own lips, brushed his finger over them softly.

Camille jumped a little as she suddenly heard Barsad speaking to Bane in Arabic from the other side of the curtain. A little nervously, and just in case he foolishly entered the room, she pulled her strapless bra back up her chest to hold her breasts again. She watched Bane's face above hers as he listened to what Barsad had to say, then answer him in the same language, hopefully telling him to go away. Bane suddenly grabbed her waist, making her hold on to him as he lifted her from the desk. She blinked up at him when he placed her on his bed, covering her lower half with the blanket.

"I have quick business that needs attending to," he murmured to her, slowly fixing his pants and zipping them back up. "You may wait for me here."

It suddenly felt really cold now that she couldn't feel the calming warmth of his body. She found that she didn't want him to go just yet, but knew that he was a man with a set mind. She thought of the way she'd just barged back into his hideout even after he had told her to leave days before. His words had surprised her. "You want me to stay?" she asked him.

Bane stared at her face for a few moments before slowly nodding.

She slowly lifted an eyebrow, playing with the ends of the curls he had pulled just a few minutes earlier, trying to ignore the shake of her thighs. "I may not be here."

He wondered if he should believe her or not. And before he could be tempted to crawl into his bed with her, he grabbed a shirt and his coat, giving her once last look before he left.

"I will return shortly," he told her, leaving to wonder if she would be there when he did.

* * *

He wasn't feeling very well. But then again, he never felt at the top of his game in the cold. It made his joints ache, his head hurt, and his eyesight blurry. He was exhausted, he knew he was. But when had the job been a casual walk in the park? When had it simply been a standard nine to five with family dinner and games with the wife and kids at the end of shift?

It hadn't been that way for years. And when he would watch TV during the holidays, the picture perfect scene of a married couple with two point five kids eating a roasted turkey around the oak dinner table was just as fantasy as dragons and unicorns.

The kids didn't want to come to his house for the holidays this year, again. They had politely refused, just as they had refused to visit for spring and summer break, even a long weekend away for their birthdays, or even Father's Day. They had their own friends now, their own schedules, their own mother. Their own life that he had unfortunately been wiped clean from because of the oath to protect and to serve. And because that oath had been so prominent in his life, been so very important, the kids had known the hard truth too. He knew they felt like they were interfering with his work. And just as any dad would say, he had tried telling them that it wasn't true. But at the time, when he had been working fifty cases a year of murders and kidnappings, each of them needing his complete focus, just the reminder of coming home on time for dinner, meeting at the school talent show, or showing up to karate had become much more demanding than the mob.

And because the job had taken him from his family, he'd never been home long enough to realize how unhappy they had become. Until, of course, it was too late.

Now they were gone, had been gone for years. And the cold still ached his body.

He was exhausted because Gotham was once again turning into the hell it had been before the Batman had showed up. He was exhausted because there was still a missing doctor who had to be found, who could hold valuable information for them. And he was exhausted because the mercenary Bane was once again on the loose and hurting people such as the important Dr. Arkham, the good Lucius Fox, and the deceased Lieutenant Brooks. It would only be a matter of time before someone else became a victim. Just like last year, just like with the nuclear bomb that had almost ended them all. And if his department didn't pick up the pace and start making some decent arrests, his city could be taken by Bane all over again.

James Gordon may be old, may be, in a certain way, alone now and without his powerful friend. But he would die before they would all be held hostage again and at the mercy of a man in a mask.

Life was almost not worth living if he sat around and really thought about the circumstances of it. Fortunately for him, there was always something to do.

But right now, he needed to get a few hours of sleep before he would head back to GPD Central and continue his search for Bane, and probably the other criminals left unfound after the revolution. It was really the only time he came home, when he needed to sleep. And sometimes even then, he would bunk at Central, sleeping for a couple here, a couple there before heading back into the field. But he had great heat at home, and realized he needed it more than silly convenience. After he showered and put on more comfortable – and warm – clothes, he rubbed his withered face, and decided that he wanted nothing more than his bed.

Not only had the job taken his family, his health and his time, it had also taken his ability to sleep peacefully. Jim reached for some Ambien, down a couple so he could rest dreamlessly, and waited for the grogginess to take over.

His doorbell suddenly rang throughout his home. He wondered if it was a deputy needing him urgently for something terrible that had just occurred, or someone else along those lines with news or even a hopeful lead. And because the pills were taking their effect on him, he slowly reached for his gun, something he always did before answering the door, and practically floated to the door. He didn't know if he would be as good a shot as he normally was if he had to use his firearm, but if the need struck he could at least take someone out in his medicated haze. Jim checked the peephole, saw a couple of familiar uniforms, and opened the door.

There was a shot, and suddenly his vision blurred completely. He felt the otherworldly feeling of flying, realized when his back hit the floor that he'd actually been falling, and finally took in the blinding pain that was scorching him in his lower stomach. Jim gagged softly, touched his lower stomach and felt the oozing liquid of his blood, looked up when a large body stood over him.

"Good evening, Commissioner," Bane said happily, kneeling down and inspecting his bullet wound, a couple of his men already heading back to the vehicles. He looked at Jim's face, noticed how pale and horrified Gotham's number one cop had become, and held up a smoking pistol for him to see like a prize. "That is bullet number two for you, dear James Gordon. Only this time your injuries will remain much more permanent than a quick stay in the hospital. I'm afraid I aimed for your spine…"

Jim started panting, helplessly trying to add pressure to his wound, looking over and realizing that his gun had flown from his weak hand as soon as Bane had shot him. He felt bile rise in his throat as his nerves started to tingle, as his mouth started to go hot. He looked up at Gotham's liberator, wondered how someone who had been so far from them could be so very close now. He thought of his family, he thought of the still missing Camille Lane. He thought of the Batman.

And realized once again that there would be no Dark Knight to help him now.

* * *

The Commissioner would live. Bane knew he would when he'd quickly aimed the gun and fired. But with life would most likely come with hardship of no longer being able to walk, to work the way he would want to work, to fight the way he had always fought.

Bane thought those hard truths alone were much more heartbreaking than simple death for James Gordon.

The city would hardly know what to do with itself when they heard what had become of their Commissioner. The police department would become lost little puppies, chasing their own tails because the big dog had been shot and crippled. Orders would be questioned, ranks would be changed and argued. It would be mayhem, it would become Gotham history.

The city would remember him forever, and finally understand that there truly was no one to save them now. They had put their faith in the Commissioner when the news of the Batman's death had paralyzed them, refused to accept the new hero because he _wasn't_ the Dark Knight, even as hard as the young one would fight and protect. And now that that faith was destroyed, balance could take its place only after inevitable destruction.

Bane and his few chosen men returned to the underground complex shortly after leaving Gordon's home. Barsad, who had regrettably stayed behind to lead an important conference call with the mob they had chosen to work with, walked next to him to ask him how the night had gone, and to tell him of the updates of the rest of their operations.

Bane listened with only half an ear as Barsad spoke, already knowing the outcome of the call because all the mobs in Gotham had become predictable to him. He had other things on his mind. Other things like if there was still a woman in his bed.

He wondered on the drives to and from the Commissioners home if Camille had left again. He wondered what he would do if that was the case. He had told her he wanted her to stay, realized that he wanted her to stay because it had been so different without her there, and because now she was listening to the truths of her body instead of denying them only because of worldly right and wrongs. But Camille was no longer his prisoner. He had set her free five days ago. And because she was now here on her own free will, it could very well be possible that she wouldn't be in the bed he had put her in.

He wanted to ask her what had changed. He wanted to know why she had come back to her prison only to allow another _mistake_.

And as he remembered how she'd looked when he had taken her, how she'd moaned for him, how she'd talked to him in the midst of her desire, he knew that what had transpired earlier had been anything but a mistake.

Bane waved Barsad away, told him his room would be off limits for the rest of the night, and made a beeline for the curtain that Camille could or could not still be behind. His gaze instantly went to his bed upon entering, kept walking closer even after his sight took in what was there… or in reality, what wasn't.

His bed was empty.

Bane stared at the rumpled covers of the full sized bed that had been placed practically in the middle of the room, tried to ignore the heavy disappointment in his chest, and breathed in the air only to be greeted with her remaining scent. His fists clenched, anger rose up because she had left him while leaving little traces of herself to further annoy him with.

"Bane."

Then he heard her voice, and looked over to the other side of the room where her suitcase was still on the floor, open because she had been kneeling by it to rummage through her clothes when he'd entered. He stared at Camille in the dim light, through the chill that hadn't been there earlier. Her hair was mussed and so very long, her lips newly painted that dark red he had admired in the asylum, and her body covered in a long, silky black robe. She approached him closer, staying a few feet away because he had looked mad just a few seconds before. They stared at each other for a few moments, Bane surprised that she hadn't really left, Camille a little relieved that he was back from wherever his business had taken him. She was the first to speak, telling him of the conclusion she'd come to while he'd been away. Telling him the truth because she was so tired of lying to herself.

"I've come to find…" she began, staring into his eyes as she took a few more small steps closer. "That I'm not done with you yet."

Bane took in her words, wondered if she could surprise him even further tonight, and simply lifted a brow at her. "Is that so?"

Camille brushed her curls behind her shoulders, nodded. "If you want me." And without breaking the eye contact, she untied the sashes of the robe and let it fall, the silk pooling at her feet to reveal the panties she'd replaced, the bra that held her generous breasts, and the black thigh highs along her legs that she still wore for warmth. "Do you?" she asked smugly, her lips wanting to smirk.

Yes, Bane thought, he definitely needed to ask her later what had changed.

His eyes took in her offered body, starting at her feet and working their way up and over every inch. Her legs were still covered in those pretty little bindings, her hips curvy and so very female. Up her stomach, to the breasts he suddenly wanted to touch again, and finally her face, the beautiful face that was now completely free of any bruising. Her body was something he had always thought attractive, even with the self-inflicted scaring along her forearms, so completely female yet bearing the past signs of long ago toning. And as she stood before him now, offering herself to him because she wanted him, he could do nothing but desire to have her again.

Bane tapped his chest with his index finger. "Remove it."

With a confident stare, Camille reached behind to unhook her bra and toss it aside. She watched him as he looked at the revealed skin, felt a rush and a new energy start to simmer and consume the exhaustion she thought she had before he came back. Her eyes darkened as she imagined sinking her nails into him again, imagined feeling the muscles of his perfect body hold her and pound away at her. She wondered where this woman inside her had been during her marriage, realized that she had never felt this aggressive as a lover with Jackson. She wanted Bane because he drove her crazy.

She wanted Bane because he had awakened this part of herself she didn't think truly existed.

"Go lie down," he commanded her, pointing to his bed.

Camille did what she was told, trailing her hand over his stomach when she sauntered past him. She climbed into his bed, scooted back until she knew his whole body would fit with hers, and leaned back on her elbows.

Bane removed his coat and shoes before standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her red mouth and imagining all the ways those pouty lips could be useful. And because he knew her black eyes were demanding it, he removed his shirt with a smirk.

"Take everything off," he told her, and watched as she peeled her panties off her legs and toss them at his chest. He stopped her from removing the thigh highs because he enjoyed the look of the rest of her completely bare to him. And because he hadn't really gotten a chance to look earlier, his eyes travelled to her center. Bane felt his pants growing uncomfortably tight as he took in her willing and completely hairless body, wondering why this night couldn't have happened sooner.

Camille watched him remove his pants and stand in front of her in only a pair of navy blue boxer briefs. She felt her body tremble to life and her insides moisten as Bane climbed onto the bed on his knees, the evidence of his wanting for her plain to see. She lifted her foot covered in the black silky fabric, ran it up his chest when he was close enough. Her lower stomach flipped when Bane caressed her foot, his own eyes darkening as he slid it up and over his shoulder when he arrived between her thighs. She wanted him, she was ready for him. She wanted to feel that great length inside her again because she _needed_ to feel it.

Bane was more than ready to give her what she wanted. As soon as he was content with just kneeling on his knees between her legs with one over his shoulder, Bane pulled down his underwear, set his fists above her hips, and slid back into the moist tightness of her, sighing deeply when he pushed right to her cervix. He watched Camille's head fall back with a fast breath, felt her clench at the intrusion, felt her stretch considerably to fit him again. Each time he'd entered her he could definitely feel the many years of her sexual abstinence, but knew she was slowly getting back into the swing of things. He saw her hands grasp the sheets with her long red nails, felt her body rumble with some sound she'd made in her throat. The heel of her foot dug into the back of his shoulder, telling him she wanted him to start moving. Bane rocked against her, making her hiss, making her look back up at him with those lustful, desiring eyes, that pouty red mouth.

"I want to bite you," she murmured to him, watching the way his hips moved into hers.

Bane continued pushing into her as he lifted his brows, wondering where this woman had been hiding within the cool and composed doctor. "This change in you is so very… lovely, darling Camille."

"Please let me bite you…"

He gave a breathless laugh as he ran his hand up her leg over his shoulder, held her small foot before moving back down. He then removed her leg, bent her knee and placed her foot on the bed just like her other one. He leaned forward a little more in his position on his knees. "So aggressive," he murmured to her, and reeled his hips back to thrust hard inside her. "Just like me."

Camille fell flat on her back and moaned as Bane picked up the pace she loved, the strength she needed. He was holding most of his weight on his fists above her hips, his hard cock continuing to stretch her, undo her. Camille lifted one of her hands into her hair, pulled on her curls because he couldn't do it for her. Bane grunted every now and then as he pumped into her, watching the way her body shook from his thrusts, the way her eyes glazed over in ecstasy. The nails of her other hand were scratching at her stomach, reddening her skin and moving a little closer down each time he pushed. Bane took that hand as he continued to move, and placed her fingers on her most sensitive area because he knew that was where she wanted to be touched.

She let out a shaky breath as she rubbed herself, the combined pleasure along with Bane's hard thrusts clouding her vision, making her tremble, making her moan. Bane intently watched her fingers as he pumped, going a little harder because the rush was becoming too overwhelming. He looked back at Camille's face when she suddenly lifted herself onto her hands, bringing her knees up higher as she challenged him with her eyes, wanting more, no longer content with Bane just riding her because she needed to do _something_. She desperately wanted to kiss him again. She wished she could rip the mask from his face and taste him like before. She stared at the place on his mask where she knew his lips were right underneath, and settled for grabbing the back of his neck and pulling herself closer, almost hanging in the air as Bane grabbed at her bottom as he slammed into her. He bent forward more, readjusted his legs.

Camille couldn't take it anymore. She grabbed at his bicep and pulled his head to the side to expose more of his strong neck, sank her teeth into the skin she desperately wanted to taste.

Bane groaned deeply and squeezed her bottom, moving his pressing hands up and down her waist so he could cup her breasts too before moving back down. Camille furthered it by licking his neck where she'd bitten him, then almost sent him over the edge when she began moving her hips too, rolling her curves against him, meeting his trusts with her own as he growled against her.

Camille whimpered as they moved in sync, sighing deeply and holding him close as he buried his face into her neck. She rolled her hips just so on his cock so that the sensitive area she had rubbed a few moments earlier could brush against his lower stomach. Bane panted hard into her neck, dug his fingers into her back as he felt the pressure rising more quickly now that she was moving along with him. Camille gasped with her moans as they rode each other, gasped and scratched at him as she started to come, bumping herself faster against him during her orgasm. Bane groaned low in his chest as he followed her into release, coming inside her again because her pulsating walls had been his undoing. Bane moved his hand up into her hair as he held her panting body, pushing into her a few more times in relief before setting her onto her back, pulling out of her and crawling up to rest on his stomach next to her. He felt Camille shiver next to him as she pulled the sheets over her naked body, resting her hand above her head as she caught her breath. Bane buried his face into the pillow after he reached down to pull his underwear back up.

The sheets of his bed were hot and tangled, much more comforting than the cold that could chill them during the nights. Right now he felt his body pumping heat like a furnace, knew that the body next to him felt the same way. After he rested for a few moments, he turned his head to look at her as she was brushing a few stray curls off her forehead.

"Why did you come back?" he asked her softly.

Camille stared up at the ceiling as she continued to rub her hair back for comfort, remembered previous events of the night that led her here. "I went to see Jackson tonight."

Bane watched her face, waited for the usual sadness to appear in her eyes every time she spoke of her ex-husband. When he didn't see it, he stayed quiet so she could continue. Slowly, she lifted her hand in front of her face, inspected her fingers, showed him the redness and very slight swelling in the knuckles.

"I punched him in the face. I broke his nose."

Bane felt a smile form underneath his mask even through the shock of her words. He had never thought to hear her say something like that, accepted that maybe she really wouldn't be able to get over the man who had left her all alone. But hearing her now made him feel… oddly proud. She had sunk into a deep depression that had almost ended her life because of the man who was now nursing a broken nose. She then told him the rest of the story. She told him about how she'd gone there as a test for herself, a test to wonder if she really had changed, if she really had been put on the road to redemption after the night Bane had replaced Jackson when it came to her body. She told him how her ex-husband had acted, told him about the model Portia who'd been there at the time. Told him how, even after hearing all the horrible things the news was telling the city when it came to her, he still hadn't looked for her, still hadn't tried to find her.

"I came back tonight because I learned that what society defines as right and wrong is sometimes… not true. The world would believe that my marriage to Jackson had been socially acceptable. Yet he was a terrible husband to me. Something that is considered _right_ is truly _wrong_, and in reality, so very toxic." She looked over at him then, noticed how comfortable he looked lying on his stomach, his lovely green eyes watching her, listening to her. "I tried forcing myself to believe that I didn't want you because it was wrong on many different levels, because of everything you've done…" Camille turned onto her side to face him, scooted just a little closer. "But if society can't figure out right and wrong, then I just have to go with how I feel. I hit Jackson because I hate him for having my heart for so long. I came back tonight because I hated having to lie to myself that I didn't want you, and because I didn't want to regret it. Gotham is _wrong_," she told him, reaching up to place her hand on his neck. "Now, I do what I feel is right."

Camille caressed his neck, both of their tired eyes staring at each other in the dim light of his room, the cold distant because of the warm sheets. Bane remembered a time when they'd had to share a bed so long ago, and how he'd woken up in this exact same position with her because of her restlessness. Only this time they were both awake. This time, they were like this because they had let themselves be like this. Society's definitions be damned, they were both here now because they wanted each other. Camille suddenly looked a little uncertain, almost like she had something to say but didn't exactly know how to approach the words. She rubbed her lips together, sighed, and whispered to him.

"I think you have… the most incredible eyes."

And before he could answer to that, before she could see any kind of expression, she turned to her other side, snuggled more under the covers, and closed her eyes for sleep. Bane stared at her hair, decided that he still felt proud of his darling Camille, and softly placed his hand on the curve of her waist before following her into oblivion.

They both ignored it when her hand snuck up to his and laced their fingers together.

Not much longer into the night, he woke her up. Bane shushed her as she jumped some, made her eyes look at him when she glanced around a little nervously after an interrupted sleep. He turned her onto her back, crawled over her and spread her legs around him. Camille let him, allowed him to take her body again because he felt like he needed to. Bane held her hands above her head as he moved inside her, his other hand holding her thigh against his side. She whispered his name, whispered other things to him as he edged them closer to release. It wasn't long before he made her come again, following shortly after from her very willing body, her soft and arousing words.

After he rolled off of her, he rested on his side facing her, one hand lost in her curls on the back of her head and the other resting on her breast with the covers pulled down to her waist. Camille remained on her back, her palm holding his cheek like a pillow, the other resting on top of the hand that held her breast. She stared at his sleepy face as she brushed her thumb over his uncovered cheekbone, at his closed eyes as he gave in to his exhaustion. She thought maybe he was still awake, whispered to him anyway.

"Do you believe in God?"

When he didn't answer she thought he'd already fallen asleep. But after a few moments, she heard his very soft, "Yes."

"Then why do you do what you do?"

Again he was quiet. She felt him softly rub his hand into her breast for comfort, felt him sigh quietly as he tried to fight sleep. Finally he answered her with an exhausted mutter.

"Because… it is necessary."

As Bane fell asleep, Camille decided that she agreed.

**TBC**

**A/N: I have been dying to write this chapter ever since I planned it long ago. I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did. I know some of you have been waiting for what happened here for a long time. Concerning Gordon, I drew inspiration from **_**The Killing Joke**_**, and gave him his daughter's fate for this story. I hope you all loved my little Thanksgiving gift to you. And I'm very thankful to have such wonderful readers and reviewers. Kisses to you all, my loves. **


	21. Where is the Edge

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 21**

**Where is the Edge**

"_Where is the edge of your darkest emotions? Why does it all survive? Where is the light of your deepest devotions? I pray that it's still alive." – Within Temptation_

Bane discovered himself standing with his hands fisted at his sides, his eyes glancing around, confused yet prepared, prepared because he knew what had happened that day. He saw the angry faces of the other prisoners around him, their own eyes full of rage that he had been keeping a girl all to himself for so very long, denying them what they had used up and destroyed within the other woman he hadn't saved. They stalked him like wolves, snarled at him like the devils they were. But they kept their distance, dressed in their rags and smelling of their filth. Bane instinctively kept his gaze on them, not wanting to remove his eyes in case they ambushed him again. And after bringing his hand to his face, discovering that his mask was there even though it hadn't truly been there on the actual day, he grew only more confused.

Not a memory this time, but a dream of an altered scene of his past. He stood in the middle of the pit with his mask fully secured and functioning properly, right in the spot that had destroyed him on the inside and out. Outside, his body had become ruined. Inside, his heart had broken when he had to let go of the only thing that had ever mattered. Bane instantly looked up towards the bright sky above him, ignored the hissing of his attackers hovering around him. He looked to the ledge, the last place he had seen her before the moment that had crippled him. He expected to see his little girl that had made the jump other men had failed to make.

But little Talia wasn't standing there. The woman he had nearly died for glanced down at him, so far down where the rocks had broken from age and a threatening height. Bane stared back up at her, knowing what was going to happen to him, knowing that since she was grown she could help. She could prevent his pain, his suffering. He wouldn't have to be beaten and scarred and mangled because he had denied the cruel lusts of other men. Bane waited for her help, waited even as she stood completely still, an emotionless expression upon that beautiful face.

Talia stared down at him, and did nothing.

And the snarling men attacked once again.

He was on his back and in his bed a second later. He glanced about his familiar room, heard the bed shift next to him. He suddenly remembered everything that had taken place the night before, remembered that there was still a body sharing the sheets with him. But the scent that drifted to him wasn't the one of the woman who was supposed to be there. This other scent, the scent he knew better than anything else, suffocated him as he looked over at the body lying next to him.

Talia grinned at him and curled her fingers around his arm tightly.

Bane's eyes snapped open, the dream finally leaving him and giving him peace from something he couldn't understand, sleep now gone because he had so desperately wanted to wake. He took a deep breath as wakefulness came to him, and slowly stretched his aching back.

He was still lying on his side, one of the sheets tossed carelessly over his hips and his fingers entwined with a few removed strands of curly black hair he had held before he'd fallen asleep. Bane glanced at the space next to him, not surprised in the least that the pillow had fallen off the bed and that curly head of hair nowhere to be found even though he could still feel her body underneath the sheets. Bane suddenly became aware of a weight draped across his side, looked down to find one of Camille's legs there. She continued to sleep restlessly, continued to move in her sleep so much that she had turned herself sometime in the night so that her arms where hanging off the other side of the bed, her head close to following because she had maneuvered herself to lay the wrong way. Bane stared at her bare back visible to him because of the low sheets, memories of the night before lingering in his mind as Camille's spine rose and fell with her deep breathing.

He'd had her three times during the night, and she'd been completely willing for each and every round. No longer did she feel regret and shame about wanting him; no longer did she try and talk herself out of her desires. She'd let him take her three times in the night because she had wanted him to, had returned to him in the first place because of it. And now here she was, taking up every inch of his bed because this woman could not sleep peacefully even if her life depended on it.

Camille's legs suddenly stretched on him, her arms following. Bane watched her silently had she stirred, watched as she sat herself up, not seeming to care at all about her positioning because she was just as used to her own restlessness as he was. She sat on the edge of the bed, holding one of the sheets to her chest and scratching her curls to wake herself up more. Bane's eyes were lowered but remained watchful even when she looked back at him, not fully aware that he was awake. He continued to stay silent as she wrapped the sheet more securely around her naked body, as she prepared to hop off his bed.

Bane lazily smirked underneath his mask when her legs almost completely gave out from underneath her as soon as her feet hit the floor, her hand grabbing the bed to catch herself and her mouth hissing into a whispered, "Ow."

Camille opened the sheet some to inspect her shaky lower half, willed her trembling legs to right themselves, and decided that maybe she had allowed Bane to go a little too hard on her.

She brushed that worry off quickly. It wasn't like she had tried to stop him. In fact, she had encouraged it.

Four years without any kind of sexual penetration had made her muscles weak for the act once she gave in to it again. And once she realized that Bane had been holding back the first time, she wasn't surprised at all that her legs were shaky like this after she got three full doses of his precise needs when it came to sex. Bane's body was _massive_, his strength unimaginable. It hadn't shocked her when she discovered his true pace, his almost animalistic _need_ to take her the way he had. And because she had discovered who she truly was when it came to human intimacies, that strength, that need of his had been just fine with her.

Once her legs could hold the rest of her body, she sauntered over to her suitcase and pulled out a few things. Her eyes brightened when she realized that Bane had his own bathroom just off to the side, no doubt the restroom that all employers had used during the time of the work that had been done here thirty years ago. She was glad to know that she didn't have to sneak out of her old room like before to the bathroom that had been a good number of feet away. It had been a little tricky when there were tons of strange men wandering around. Her feet still covered in the black thigh highs that Bane had kept upon her legs patted across the floor as she entered the bathroom, closing the door softly so she wouldn't wake him.

Camille looked into the dusty mirror and saw a mess.

Her black curls were completely mussed from a restless sleep and a long night of sex. She had smeared black mascara underneath her eyelids, her lips still faintly stained that dark red. Camille leaned in to stare closer at her lips, remembered the shocking act of Bane kissing her after he was able to remove the mask for a short period of time because he had injected himself with morphine. She rubbed her lips together, tasted them, found that she wanted to feel his mouth there again because those lips had been so tasty.

_I've come to find… that I'm not done with you yet._

She had said that to Bane last night, and realized that she still wasn't done.

Camille thought more about the situation as she cleaned herself up as best as she could. She brushed her teeth, tried to fix her hair, washed her face. As she continued washing herself, she wondered when exactly she was going to go back to her old life, her real life after she was done with this crazy scheme of realized wanting and desire. It wasn't an option for her to stay here forever. She wouldn't allow it to be an option. Bane's life was one she could never be accepted in, and she didn't think he wanted her around all the time. She had only returned in the first place because she was tired of regretting the things she truly wanted in life, had felt so alone and disconnected from the only home she had ever known. Gotham was wrong, she thought to herself, repeating the words she had told Bane last night. Society would never accept the pull she felt around him, the twisted sense of obligation she still had concerning him. And if society was wrong, then how the hell was she supposed to know what was right?

She couldn't know, so she did what she wanted and returned to be with him because she was sick of the frustration of denial.

Camille rubbed moisturizer on her lips and knew that once she was done with that frustration she would go back to the world and the life she knew she needed to return to. This very strange relationship that had formed between them would have to end when they were both done. Camille didn't think she could even refer to her and Bane as lovers, felt that maybe she shouldn't. She couldn't exactly figure out a name for what was going on with them, and decided not to think too much about it.

She had already gotten rid of one man in her heart. She would refuse to make room for someone who was just as dysfunctional as she was.

Camille carefully shed the thigh highs from her weak legs, cleaned herself of any left-over bodily trace of last night, and pulled on clean panties, her black leggings, and had to be content with just a black bra because she had neglected to reach for a shirt. She cleaned up her mess, exited the bathroom.

She stumbled a little when she locked eyes with Bane as he calmly sat on the edge of the bed.

She felt a brief moment of awkwardness as she blinked at him, realized that she was very rusty when it came to this sort of thing. But as she stared at him, sitting perfectly content with his arms crossed over each other and the sheets around his hips, she remembered why she had trekked through Gotham's first snow of winter to return to him. His eyes made her shiver, his body made her hands itch to touch, and that calm, tactical demeanor made her skin heat with a feeling she had come to fully accept. She felt certain things around him that she hadn't with anyone else. And because that thought alone was too complicated at the moment, she brushed it off completely.

She wouldn't lose this part of herself because of insignificant things like emotions. She found that she very much preferred feeling only lust.

Bane's mask hissed mechanically as he sat on the bed, lifted a hand to beckon her closer to him. He watched her drop the things that had been in her arms, moved his gaze all along her body as she walked over to him. He had told her last night that the change she had made to herself while she'd been away had been lovely. And as she came to stand between his open legs, as she looked slightly downward at him with that same glint in her black eyes that had been there the night before, he decided that this new, very confident and _free _Camille was very lovely indeed. Bane lifted his hand and placed his fingertips onto her collarbone.

"I believe that pesky soul tie has been completely severed from you, Dr. Lane," he said to her, his voice a little hoarse from the morning after a long night. He ran his fingertips down her skin, held them over her beating heart. He could have smiled at her quickened pulse, but instead he palmed her chest so he could feel it more. "Your heart is finally free."

Hearing his own words, Bane suddenly found himself frowning. He stared at his hand over Camille's chest, felt… something he couldn't explain once Talia's face entered his mind and continued to lurk there. He didn't want to think of her face because that would mean thinking of the dreams and memories that had plagued him since his days locked away in the asylum. And to think of that was to remember certain words that had been said to him a while ago by the very woman standing in front of him now. He felt his own heart clench in his chest, tried to banish Talia to that certain part inside himself where she would forever stay. Anything else regarding her, he would refuse to deal with.

He looked back at Camille's face once he felt her fingers underneath his chin, almost hated that maternal look of concern upon her face that she had been using on him ever since their sessions together so long ago.

"What's wrong?" she whispered to him.

That old annoyance only Camille could give him found him again. "Why do you always ask me that?"

"I'm still your doctor. It's in my nature to ask you when I feel the need to." She wasn't surprised when he grew quiet.

Camille wasn't stupid. She knew him well enough now to know when the ghost of a dead woman would haunt him, when the face of the one he had given everything to would appear in his mind. She only ever asked him that question when she knew the reason for it was Talia al Ghul, understood on a professional level that maybe Bane was having some inner complications when it came to certain realizations about her. And even though he tried to ignore it, even though he tried to make it seem like it had never happened, she knew that her words about the truth of his dead love had found their way underneath his skin.

But she also knew, on a professional and a personal level when it came to him, that it wasn't yet time to mention it. He would only respond violently again because he wasn't yet ready to give Talia up.

Bane had his own soul tie to sever. And she didn't know right now if she was the one who could help him with it.

She found she could only distract him from the grip of a ghost.

His large hand continued to rest over her heartbeat. Camille took that wrist, stepped just an inch closer and firmly held his palm against her. "While I was away… Did you miss me?"

She watched Bane come back to reality and to her, saw him lift his brow at her words and counter them. "Did you miss _me_?"

She thought it over, then realized she didn't like the answer. She had meant this only to be a distraction for him. And now the full weight of those words sat heavy on her chest. She suddenly didn't care for it, didn't want to comprehend it even though she had been trained to understand the inner workings of the mind and heart. And because she wanted to ignore it, she gave him the answer she thought best to give. "No."

She thought maybe he was smirking at her underneath his mask, didn't want to know if he was. She asked him the question again.

"No," he repeated.

Camille then wondered when exactly they had started lying to each other.

She was thankful to be snapped out of her thoughts when Bane suddenly filled his hands with her breasts, distracting them both as he cupped her over her bra. She sighed at his touch, wanted to repeat everything that had happened last night because she still wasn't done.

Bane watched her face as he touched her, squeezed her breasts again when her hands rose up to cover his own. Her eyebrows and lashes were almost just as black as the hair upon her head, the color of her eyes matching her curls. He glanced down at those pouty lips, remembered the feeling of them moving over his mouth and the taste of her tongue, remembered the urgency that had been there for that one taste. Bane lifted a hand, traced his fingertips over her lips, decided that if he couldn't taste them then he could touch them and remember. He felt the sudden demands of arousal once Camille opened her mouth some, touched his fingers with her tongue and her teeth, and so very softly sucked.

_Where on earth_ had this Camille been the first time he had taken her against the wall?

Bane suddenly grabbed her lower back and brought her closer to him, watched the way her eyes lowered to the mouthpiece of his mask, almost groaned when she tilted her head to the side a little like she wanted to kiss him. She brought her mouth closer to his covered one, seeming to forget about the barrier until they were but a whisper away. He ran his hand down her body, slipped it underneath her leggings when that need began consuming him, demanding him that he take from her again. He could still feel the wetness of her mouth on his fingers as he reached inside her panties, felt her take his shoulders into her hands as she inhaled a fast breath. He gripped her lower back hard when he brushed his middle finger over her opening, looked up at her face when she softly hissed and grabbed his forearm.

"Careful," she whispered. "You seem to forget how strong you are when you're busy…"

"I know my strength," he muttered, moving both hands into her leggings and grabbing her bottom the same way he had cupped her breasts. "You returned to me fully knowing what you wanted. _You_ are the one who seemed to have forgotten my strength and your own limitations. And yet you were so demanding of that strength, Camille…"

She thought maybe he was teasing her, decided to put him in his place. Her eyes darkened when she placed her hands underneath his chin again, forced his head further up to look at her, and softly brushed her lips over the mouthpiece of his mask. "I know your strength too. I demanded it because I _wanted_ it." As they stared hard at each other, she felt him grip her bottom harder in his hands, ran her fingers over the straps covering the sides of his head as she teased him further by flicking her tongue so very softly over the tubes that pumped medicine into him. She heard his slow intake of breath, watched his eyes glaze over again, relished in his arousal. "As for limitations… I have none."

Bane's eyes widened slightly when she lowered herself onto her knees in front of him.

And then suddenly, a great need consumed them completely. Camille began ripping the sheets away from his lower half, Bane staring down at her with anticipation heating his skin. He swallowed some as she ran her hands up his solid thighs, suddenly feeling so very neglected from this very situation. He forcefully grabbed as much of her hair as he could into his hands, holding those coarse curls behind her head so he could fully see her face. He stared down at her lips as she brought her body closer in between his legs, wondered how many times he had wanted those lips to be so useful. His jaw clenched and his fists tightened in her hair as she curled her fingers over the waistband of his boxer briefs, tugged a little.

Camille suddenly squealed and jumped up to her feet when men's voices were heard right outside the curtain that closed off Bane's room. She knew they were calling for him in some foreign tongue, and desperately hoped they knew better than to walk right on in. She looked down at Bane, his hands still lost in the makeshift ponytail behind her head, looking off to the side as he listened to what they had to say. Once they were finished, she felt his fists tighten in what she knew was irritation, and turn slightly towards the curtain to bark something at them in that same language. His men were quiet for a few moments before the sounds of their boots were heard as they scurried away. Bane removed his hands from her hair and made her take a small step back so he could stand, once again towering over her with his great height.

Apparently the moment was over. His work was calling.

Camille waited in the chair at his desk while he showered and dressed, not really knowing what she needed to do and not caring for the idea of leaving just yet. She assumed since maybe she was going to stay for a little while longer that she should resume her old tasks of taking care of him so she could feel useful, useful in ways other than continuing this new aspect of their odd relationship. She turned her head to look at the desk, remembered the feeling of being held down upon it while Bane drove her crazy. She then wondered again what exactly she was doing here, told herself that it was only to get rid of the realized sexual frustration that had been eating away at her for a while now. But when she thought about leaving and going back to her home, she felt that same disconnection that had saddened her for the few days after Bane had told her to leave, something she assumed he did because of that same frustration.

She didn't want to go back to the nothing just yet, the loneliness and unfulfillment of her everyday life. She watched Bane slide his boots on, reach for the back brace that gave him comfort.

"Why are you hurting those people?" she asked him, bringing her knees up to her chest.

"Are you surprised?" That same irritation laced his voice. He definitely hadn't been happy to be interrupted earlier.

"Of course not. I'm just wondering why _those _people." Camille knew she would forever think like a psychiatrist, knew that she would never stop questioning people, especially those who had once been her patients. And while she had her own thoughts on why certain people were being singled out by him, she wanted to hear him tell her himself. "Dr. Arkham is easy to figure out. But I don't understand why when it comes to the other man who used to work at Wayne Enterprises. And I'm only assuming that you left last night to deal with someone else."

Bane secured all of his braces, kept his eyes away from her. "You assume correct, Dr. Lane." When she remained silent, he knew she was waiting for him to give her a name. And because he wanted to see her reaction, he told her. "The great police Commissioner will be out of work for quite some time, I'm afraid."

"Jim Gordon?"

He nodded, finally turned to look at her. She was still sitting in his chair, still, for whatever reason, wearing only a bra to cover her chest. She still had that curiosity of the doctor she had been before he'd taken her away, something like contemplation etched in her face as she thought about what he'd told her.

And she was still here.

He spoke to her softly. "Does it upset you to know that the man who searched for you so bravely is now in the hospital because of me? To know that the innocent life who tried to take you away from me and bring you home will most likely never walk again?"

Camille glanced up at him, remembered what he had told her last night about certain things being necessary. Remembered that she had agreed because the world was so very cruel and unbalanced. The world didn't want her, and therefore could not mourn her time away from it. Commissioner Gordon knew firsthand how terrible the city had become, yet so foolishly continued to try and save it. It wasn't her fault he had met a painful fate. It was his own for trying to do the impossible with hardly any genuine help.

"There are no innocent lives in Gotham," she told him, repeating almost the same words he had spoken so long ago in the asylum.

She had always been able to understand him. He knew that, would never have spoken with her to the extent he had while residing in Arkham under her care. But as he looked at her now, as he heard her words, he knew Camille understood certain things some people would never be able to fully grasp. He wondered if it was her past that had given her that understanding, or if she was simply bred to think almost just like him. He wondered how it would be to keep her around for a long time to come, wondered if she would accept this life as her own.

Then he remembered that Camille was free. From her soul tie to Jackson Lane, from her denial in what she truly wanted. He remembered that Camille was also now free from him, and could do as she pleased. He had once told her that she belonged to him, had told the Nightwing the same thing when the young hero had tried to find a way to rescue her. Bane oddly felt that she was no longer his.

He couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

* * *

For reasons no one cared to think about, the old man had stayed in Gotham City. Because he had always been a behind-the-scenes type of man, no one noticed his continued presence even after a tragedy. If he was ever given a passing thought, be it by an old friend, an old contact, an old enemy, it was to pity him quickly for his terrible loss, and simply move on to more important things. But the old man hardly needed any pity, those few would think when they would see him shopping contently or simply taking a trip to the post office. He had been given billions for his time put in, his life and his apparent love. He could live the perfect life, decorate the perfect home, eat the most perfect and delicious foods because he could afford them easily.

But for most citizens of Gotham, the old man was just another withered face.

To Bane, he was his revenge almost manifested.

He was a leader, and led his men well because he was hard on them, expected the very best from them, gave orders and knew those orders would be carried out in his desired time because that was the way things worked. If he wasn't pleased with his men, he would simply do away with them and never have to glance upon their insignificant faces ever again. His men knew when to jump when given the word, knew when to kill when given the target.

His army knew that they were to do absolutely nothing without his permission.

Bruce Wayne was supposed to live until he said so, was supposed to suffer until everyone he'd ever known was burning and screaming, and dying. But he hadn't listened. Instead, he returned to die only when Gotham was certain to live. Bruce Wayne had made his words meaningless, had taken that permission and abused it, flipped it to suit him. Bane could kill him all over again for that alone. The Batman was supposed to die after the city he tried his hardest to protect burned. Instead, he gave his own life for Gotham's.

And because he had disobeyed him, Bane would make sure that Bruce Wayne rolled in his watery grave when he broke the only person never to give up on him.

Tech-savvy Zaid, still annoyed when referred to as the new recruit, had been ordered days ago to install security cameras along the entrances of Alfred Pennyworth's comfortable town house in downtown Gotham. He had assured Bane that even the Batman's own gadgets would never be able to detect his creations, bet his life on it, which Bane would most certainly hold him to. His cameras were so small, so undetectable that not even a little bird would notice it, especially big, foolish birds who stalked the night in replacement of bats. And because of those cameras, because of Zaid's promises to his leader, they tailed the Batman's former caretaker as he took his daily walk to his favorite coffeehouse in the early morning cold.

If Bane couldn't punish Bruce Wayne for disobeying him, the old man would take his place.

At his signal, his men exited the truck, snatched the old man when he came about a secluded area of his walk, and dragged him into the industrial back alley of forgotten construction. Bane watched calmly as his men beat what had been the Batman's only family, watched and wished that it were the Dark Knight himself taking the fists and hard kicks of the chosen few to come along for the ride. He made sure that he wasn't beaten too excessively, not wanting the old man to suffer unconsciously like Lucius Fox was. He wanted Alfred Pennyworth to understand what was happening, why it was continuing, and to suffer with injuries he could not escape from with unconsciousness. Once he held up a hand for them to stop, he nodded at Barsad who quickly broke the old man's arm at the elbow with the end of his sniper.

Bane took in the painful howls, and felt better. He wished he could see Bruce Wayne's face as he witnessed what his disobedience had caused his family.

Bloody, beaten, and broken, the old man held his screaming arm and impressed Bane when he glared courageously up at him, ignoring the tremor vibrating his body from old age. Bane kneeled down in front of him, admired the spunk and fortitude of this small, grieving butler.

"You should have given up on him."

Panting softly and knowing he was most likely going to pass out, Alfred held the mercenary's gaze defiantly and scoffed.

"Never," he answered.

* * *

Camille didn't know what to do while Bane was away. She refused to stay in his room and sit on his bed, idly twiddling her thumbs as she patiently waited for him to return. She couldn't do something like that because she wasn't that kind of woman, the kind to wait around for the man to come back so she could have her fill again like the obedient little lover. And she wasn't Bane's lover anyway.

Well… she kind of was now, she told herself when she would think too hard about it, if she went that far into the reality of it all. But she didn't want to use that term. If Bane saw her as that now, or anyone else for that matter, since they hadn't been particularly discreet when she had returned last night, then that was their own issues. As for her and her own thought process, she wouldn't refer to herself as his lover because she didn't want to feel… whatever it was that she didn't want to feel. So instead of waiting around for him, she finished washing and dressing, sliding on an off-the-shoulder black long sleeved shirt for warmth with her leggings, and decided to go see what had become of the worktable in her old room, smacking her lips together after she'd painted them the color of deep wine.

Camille knew she was drawn to Bane, knew that she had felt unacceptable attraction for him ever since their days in the asylum together. She didn't really relate well to people, knew her lack of friends came from that. But when she'd started to get to know her patient better, started to understand exactly what kind of man he was, she had felt a certain pull to him that she couldn't remember feeling with anyone else. She had lost sleep over the long nights she would lie in bed when she was treating him, wondering if someone could do the things that Bane had done and still be perfectly sane. She knew the truth now, knew that maybe it could be possible. And now that she was sleeping with him she felt a different kind of pull, one that had everything to do with the physical because of the attraction she had tried denying.

And she was still okay with it because it seemed to be the only thing that had been worth it in her long list of regrets in life.

Camille's black heels clicked on the concrete as she walked inside her old room, discovered it exactly how she'd left it, save for her things. Her door was still broken from Bane's strength, her bed still unmade since the last night she had slept there, and her worktable exactly how she'd set it up so that she could keep him happy and healthy. She thought back to seeing Bane giving himself morphine even though he had always made her do it for him, wondered if he knew how to administer his analgesics as well even though he always made sure he had a doctor on hand to take the task off his hands. She assumed he had other things he needed to be doing, and left it at that.

And because she didn't know how long Bane would be away, she decided to generate another batch of his medicine in case he would need more soon. She was bored and needed to do something with her hands.

The process took her a couple of hours, lasting a little longer than what was normal because she had to stupidly go in search of some cocaine to add to his canisters, finally finding the guy she knew handled the act of getting it for Bane and who had his own addiction to the drug. He simply handed her what she needed and walked off.

Camille had always been oddly thankful that none of Bane's men had bothered her during her time here. She had been confused because they had treated her so indifferently, but thankful nonetheless. She wondered if Bane had told them to leave her alone, or if they paid her no mind simply because they had no interest. But whatever the reason, she shrugged it off and returned to her work. She shivered in the small room once the medicine was complete a while later, decided to head back to her things in Bane's room so she could retrieve her jacket.

The big, dark and cold hallways of Bane's underground hideout were suddenly very quiet. Not many people were around. She assumed that a lot of the other mercenaries had left with their leader to go do whatever it was they had to do. But as Camille walked along, her arms folded for warmth and her heels making the only sound she could hear, she suddenly felt that maybe she wasn't as alone as she thought.

A soft chill ran up her spine, the feeling of being watched slightly frightening and annoying her at the same time. And as bad as she knew the other men were that had stayed here with her, she had very rarely felt what she was feeling right now during the weeks she had been Bane's captive. But that wasn't true, she told herself as she stopped and looked around. She had felt like this once before, remembered why she had felt so uneasy and unnerved.

She had forgotten about the notes when she had decided to come back last night, forgotten that the very person who had been sending them to her was a mystery within Bane's army. And as she cursed herself for forgetting something so huge, the words of the last note that had been carelessly tossed on her bed came back to her mind.

_One last chance. Make it count._

She was out of chances because Bane was still alive. Her time was apparently up.

Camille spun around when she heard someone begin to whistle behind her. A man stepped out of the shadows with his happy tune, hands in his pockets and a brightness to his eyes. He was of average height, average slim build wearing average clothes, forgettable brown hair and eyes. His olive skin tone and bone structure instantly said foreigner to her. And when he spoke, he spoke with an Italian accent, telling her that he wasn't from Bane's original army, but came from the mob they had partnered with. But she should have figured that out right away, should have known that anyone who had been in Bane's crew before would never be so foolish as to sneak their way in so that their leader could fall. She was supposed to have done away with Bane herself while he'd been locked up in the asylum, had known they'd chosen her for the task because she'd had the most access to him. She had failed the man who stalked her now, and whoever had sent him.

The coward had finally come out of hiding.

"You don't listen very well, do you, Dr. Lane," he said lazily, smirking at her with his thin lips and taking small steps closer.

She knew the smart thing to do would be to call for some kind of help. But because the anger she had always felt when it came to those stupid notes rose within her again, she glared at the Italian man before her. "I listen just fine. But murdering my patient because someone else holds a grudge is something I have a slight problem with."

"You could have done it so easily, you know," he continued, ignoring her words and her anger. She was just a woman, after all. "You could have slipped a needle into his skin just as quietly as slipping into his cell. He was weak and you practically owned him. But you didn't listen." He shook his head pityingly at her. "In fact, you did the opposite, didn't you? Now you sleep in his bed. Now you are the monster's _whore_."

Camille fisted her hands at her sides as she glared, rage choking her. "More pretty words that mean nothing to me."

The man gave her a lopsided grin. "Time is up, Dr. Lane. No more warnings. You failed us."

And then he lunged for her.

Her legs still didn't have the strength she needed to bolt away from him the way she could have, the soreness there preventing her from making quick and fast movements. But she tried to scurry away, yelped when the man kept grabbing her by her arms, her waist, her hair. He slapped her hard across the face when she continued to struggle, trying to pull her to a more secluded room so he could carry out his orders and punish her for her disobedience. He growled at her squirming, tried to drag her by her curls.

Camille yelped and struggled, couldn't seem to find time to yell loudly enough because of the man's insistent hands and slaps to her face, his hard yanks on her body. She pushed at him, scratched at him hard enough to make him hiss, continued to flail because it could buy her time. He dragged her to the floor, tried to evade her heels as she kicked at him when he tried grabbing her ankles. Her chunky heel connected with his shoulder, pushed him back some. Camille quickly turned onto her stomach, opened her mouth to scream as loudly as she could. But the man's hand slapped across her mouth before she could get too loud, yanked her hair with his other hand and began dragging her. She clawed at his forearms as he put her in a headlock, panted against his palm.

She'd known it was possible for this day to come when she would read the notes and refuse to let the words mean anything. She had never allowed the thought of doing away with Bane to be an option because the people of Gotham were afraid of him. Bane was her patient, and she had taken an oath to protect him when he'd been in her care, regardless of what he'd done. But now the reality of ignoring those threats was upon her, now her punishment had come. But Camille didn't want to die at the hands of someone so cowardly, someone who had tried to make her do something she never would have done. And when that anger rose even further within her, the anger for the one hurting her now just because she hadn't carried out their pathetic orders to kill Bane, her vision started to go red, and the deep voice of Bane entered her mind.

_If someone tries to hurt you, you hurt them more excessively. _

Bane hadn't cared for the fact that she didn't really know how to defend herself. But she remembered the very little he'd told her concerning her safety, held on to the power of his words inside her as the man reached into his pocket for a knife. Her hands began shaking from her rage, from the will to get away. She heard the man chuckle behind her, ignored it when she heard Bane's voice in her head again and listened intently.

_If someone tries to hurt you, then you stab them in the heart. _

Camille growled against the man's palm, bent her head forward and smashed the back of her skull into the man's face. She maneuvered her mouth and bit down hard on his fingers, twisted her body violently around and backhanded him across the face, scratching him with her nails before she tried to scurry away again. A frustrated whimper escaped her lips when he grabbed her shirt and yanked, pulling her closer and then snarling at her when she tackled him and repeatedly began hitting him and kicking him with her heels as hard and as fast as she could. She continued to try and hit him in her rage even after he pushed her off of him and slammed her onto her back, her eyes widening slightly when he reeled his fist back so that it could connect with her face.

She shrieked when she was suddenly pulled out from underneath him by her ankles, continued to squeal through her sky high adrenaline as another man yanked her up and tossed her to another body. She panted and shook in anger as she looked up at Barsad holding her, heard the Italian man yelling when Barsad tossed her yet again to another man to join in restraining her attacker. She was about to scream for people to stop touching and tossing her until the next body she was thrown to felt suddenly familiar, the strong arms she knew coming around her to calm her down and hold her in place. Camille looked up at Bane, held onto his arm wrapped around her waist as he pressed her back against his chest. Feeling content now that the man wasn't trying to hurt her anymore, she slowly set her heels back onto the floor and watched Bane's men hold the traitor down onto his knees with his hands forcefully held behind his back.

The Italian man began to panic as he looked around at all the angered faces, never having thought that he could be caught before doing away with the loose end that was Dr. Lane. He felt himself start to nervously tremble, wondered what his boss would say when given the report of his failure. He looked at Camille, hated her even more, and winced as she yelled at him, pointing with her accusing finger.

"That _bastard_ is the one who's been sending me those _stupid_ notes! He's been here the whole time, the little _prick_."

Bane felt her anger start to rise again, continued to hold her in place before she went off in a frenzy. Apparently he had a rat within his army, one who came from the mob to work with them so that he could continue to harass Camille outside the asylum, demand that she take his life so that someone could sleep peacefully at night. And, as he was learning now, the warnings had finished and this rat was to carry out her own execution. He felt his own anger simmer as he thought of someone being so foolish as to try to sneak their way into his crew to eliminate him, knew that the traitor would not leave this place alive. Camille suddenly mentioned how she had received another note telling her it was to be her last one before punishment. More anger softly boiled within him when finding out that she had neglected to tell him of the rat she had known about all along. He released Camille when she calmed down enough, and slowly approached the traitor.

He enjoyed the terrible fear that entered the man's eyes as he loomed over him, his nervousness and shake of his body. "What is your name?"

"It doesn't matter. I am a dead man."

Bane stared hard at him, made him even more overwrought, then gave a brisk nod. "Very true. But I may consider skipping torture for information. Did the Italians send you to execute me, or to continue harassing Dr. Lane?"

The trembling man stayed quiet.

Bane waited just a few moments more for an answer. When he was given only more silence, he waited as Barsad sent his fist into the traitor's eye three hard times before speaking again through the pained whimpers. "The Italian mob is quite foolish indeed if they think someone so small could harm me. So I assume you are here only to threaten the lady." Bane looked back at Camille, saw her red cheek and her disorderly shirt from her struggle, and gestured for her to come closer. "So the lady will decide your fate. And she has quite a temper, as you know."

Camille stood next to Bane and glanced down at the man with the already swollen eye, the man who was sent to harm her. She didn't know how she felt when Bane announced that it would be her decision regarding what would happen to her attacker, felt that the questions buzzing inside her brain needed more attention. She kneeled down so she could be eyelevel with him, glanced in his eyes and tried to think like a professional. She saw so much fear, and felt something tell her that maybe it wasn't only for Bane.

"Who sent you?" she asked him, speaking with a stern voice as if he were one of her stubborn patients.

"The people of Gotham want him dead."

"I don't care about the people of Gotham. I want to know who in the mob is pulling your strings. How did you know where I lived, my fax number at home and at work?"

The man sighed through his panting, found that he couldn't look anywhere but her eyes because they were suddenly so familiar, found himself answering her because it seemed so normal. "We simply found out. It is not hard to do. I was supposed to keep an eye on you here. And when you left a few days ago, I couldn't find you. You didn't go home. But then you came back…" The man squinted his eyes some, studied her harder, glancing all over her face, at her hair and body.

Camille drew her brows together at his actions, willed her mind to work overtime so she could figure this man out. She studied his eyes, his demeanor, reached deep inside herself and found that she had seen this look somewhere before but couldn't quite place it, the warped look of a man who had been promised the world. She looked behind her at Bane when she decided that she wouldn't receive any valuable answers from the man, stood and turned to walk away.

"You are watched more than you know," the man called out to her, hated when she ignored him. "Guard your back, or you will return to the hole… baby girl."

Camille suddenly stopped in her tracks, felt her chest give one good heave and her chin instinctively start to quiver. Panic tore at her heart, the scars on her forearms suddenly feeling itchy and so very _there_, reminding her of what had used to be, what she had lived through so long ago. Her old nickname hung in the air like a disease, like a rotting fungus she could never get rid of completely. She turned back around slowly to look at him, took a few cautious steps closer.

And suddenly realized exactly where the lost look of utter devotion and confusion came from in the man's eyes.

"What did you say?" she asked on a shaky breath. And when the man clammed up completely, she felt a desperation she didn't want settle on her chest. She asked him again, asked him even though she didn't want the answer because she already _knew_ it. "Who sent you?"

The man gazed into her eyes again, the same pair of eyes that had convinced him to take this task in the first place, the eyes that had promised him money and sex for Bane's destruction. Dr. Lane had those same black eyes as his boss.

"Alcina Angeli," he whispered.

Camille felt herself go numb as she heard her mother's name, felt that same emptiness that had been with her all throughout her life. Her mother had been the reason for the notes, had wanted her to kill Bane for some sick revenge, or simply to make her life miserable again. Her mother had sent this man to warn her, to hurt her when she ignored the words, insulted her when she had found out that Camille had let Bane have her body. Her mother could very well be running the Italian mob of Gotham City.

The man watched Camille turn to Bane, walk up to him slowly and whisper something to him. She refused to give him one last look as she walked off. He watched her go, but was snapped out of his gaze at the sound of very heavy boots coming his way. The man looked up, felt a whimper rise in his throat as Bane towered over him.

"It does not end well for you, I'm afraid," Bane told him.

The man didn't have any time to scream before his neck was twisted horribly, and broken. A gurgle escaped his mouth as he dropped to the floor.

Bane glanced down at the broken spine of a traitor, and pointed to him. "Put a few bullets into him for good measure and drop him off at the Italian's doorstep. I want them to know what became of their useless efforts."

His men nodded and hauled the body off, Barsad dutifully leaving with them to lead. Bane waited until they left, and then cast his eyes to the direction his doctor had walked off in.

This conversation was not over.

* * *

He found her in her old room, sitting on the floor on her knees just like she always used to, her hands neatly folded in her lap as she stared off into nothing. Bane stood in the doorway and watched her for a few moments, not sure if the gears in her head were working at an unimaginable pace or if she had turned off her mind completely. And because of the way she was now, because of the mention of Camille's maiden name, Bane understood that the person who was causing her grief and who had obviously put a price upon his head was Camille's mother. Bane thought back to the one small picture he'd seen of her back in Camille's apartment, wondered now when thinking of the beautiful face if these new facts surprised him at all. The act of seduction was obviously a game her mother played well. The man tonight had died for promises she'd had no intention of keeping.

Camille must have known he was there when she began to speak, her voice soft and scared. Almost like a child.

"She used to call me that. She used to call me baby girl."

Camille wondered if she could feel her heartbeat, wondered if anything was beating in there at all. She really wished she could be dreaming right now, wished everything that had happened could just be another silly nightmare. But when she told herself it was reality, that her mother had always known what she'd been doing with her life, she tried so very hard not to begin to panic. She grabbed one of her forearms, suddenly wished for one of her depression pills to make the ache in her chest go away. But she couldn't do that because she was learning to live without them. She forced herself to think like an adult and not like the abused little girl she had once been.

"You should have told me there was someone in my circle who was untrustworthy," Bane said softly.

Camille swallowed, realized that that was absolutely true. She hadn't thought of that because she hadn't wanted to make Bane any more a part of her life than he already was. She had been selfish and irresponsible. She had been stubborn. "You're right. I'm sorry," she whispered, suddenly feeling very foolish. She looked down at her hands, inspected, then muttered, "That fucker made me break my nails…"

Bane continued to stand in the doorway, looked at the long curls down her back when she refused to turn to look at him. "Has your mother always been involved with the Italian mob?"

Camille drew her brows together as she thought back to a time she very much wanted to forget, pushed the long sleeve of her black shirt up so she could feel her little scars. "I don't know. But it wasn't unusual for her to entertain certain people of a high status… like Carmine Falcone, for instance, when my father and brothers weren't home. They never knew. But… I saw them, all the time. She told me to keep quiet," she said in a distant voice, scratching at her scars and remembering everything she had been through all over again, remembering how the steak knife had felt against her skin. "She told me I couldn't tell anyone. They were just her friends, that's all. She told me to be quiet about her friends because I was always her good baby girl." Camille suddenly felt her heart, felt the racing of it in her chest, felt her breath start to quicken and the panic begin to rise. "My mother… always knew where I lived. She knew where I worked. She knows where I am. I tried to keep away from her, but she knows everything. She knows I came back to you and what we did and she wanted me to kill you—"

Camille jumped and spun around when Bane loudly slammed the broken door of her old room, forcing it closed and flicking the lock. She watched him remove his jacket as he approached her, stared at the hard set of his determined eyes.

"She does not control me," he said sternly, towering over her as she was once again struck low by the family who hurt her. "Do _not_ allow her to continue to do the same to you. Remember what I told you about anxiety. You are a woman now, Camille. You may do as you please. And I know what pleases you," he murmured, and held out his hand to her.

She stared at his hand, looked up at his face. She took in his words, remembered previous ones about anxiety and weakness, and held on to them so she could believe that they were truth. She didn't want to sink, didn't want to drown again. So she took his hand, let him pull her up and bring her to stand in front of her old dresser so she could look in the mirror, could finally take a deep breath when he placed his hands on her waist behind her. Camille stared at their reflections, felt her skin grow hot and the panic leave her when Bane reached up and grabbed the front of her neck, pressing the mouthpiece of his mask against her ear.

"Look at you. You are a _woman_. Not a child."

Camille shivered and nodded, felt the same stirrings from last night as she was turned around to face him, felt the flip of her lower stomach when he lifted her onto the dresser in front of him. She was level with him now, stared into his green eyes and listened to his words as he continued to talk to her.

"Do you still want me?"

She nodded insistently and whispered, "Yes."

Bane yanked her leggings off and pulled her shirt over her head. "Your mother knows why you returned to me. Does it matter if she knows?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he ripped her panties in half, appreciated her soft gasp as she leaned back slightly on her palms so he could touch her, moved his hands from her bra all the way to her legs on either side of him. "Does it matter if she knows about us, Camille?"

She forgot how sore she still was from last night, could only feel the heat and the pressure building now. "No. No, it doesn't matter," she muttered, and felt that the idea of it mattering now was not only impossible but absurd. Camille let out a fast breath as she took the hem of Bane's shirt, pulled it off him right before she reached for his pants. If she didn't have him now, she might just explode. He tilted her hips up when she released him, made sure she was hot and ready for him before he stepped closer. He positioned himself, felt her grab his biceps.

"_Let_ her know," he growled, and gave her the hard thrust of him he knew she craved.

Camille groaned as she locked her legs around his waist, relished in the feeling as he took her greedily in a kind of madness, only speed and desperation in the intense pleasure that it destroyed her. His hands, his scent, his solid body. Everything she wanted and so desperately needed. She wanted his hard thrusts that continued to make her ache, wanted that strength, that force of him more than she wanted air to breathe. She moaned as he took her jaw in his hand, her thigh in the other, locking her gaze with his as he took her hard and hungrily. Bane tilted his head, brought the tubes of his mask barely a whisper away from her lips, felt her breath merge with his as he continued to thrust inside her. Her hands rushed and grasped at him, moving over his hips and up his back. Quick spikes of heat, pleasure, and madness roared through him, swarmed him as he listened to her grateful cries.

"Bane," she whispered, and chanted his name over and over as he rocked her.

He felt her warm, smooth flesh, the lovely womanly curves that made him dizzy. He knew he was rough, also knew that neither of them cared. And when she continued to breath his name, continued to grasp at him desperately, he pounded himself into her harder, growled against her neck as his strength made the dresser bang into the wall behind it repeatedly. They came seconds apart, her throbbing walls finishing him, emptying him as he stared into her deep, dazzled eyes that had gone dark and desiring.

She went slack with release, leaned against the mirror as she caught her breath, felt the warm liquids of their pleasure along the inside of her thighs once he pulled out of her. She was thankful to know Bane couldn't conceive children and that he'd always been perfectly clean of any disease, had known those facts about him since his many surgeries in the hospital so long ago. She'd never had to consider protection because he didn't have anything she needed to be protected from.

A little voice inside her head suddenly told her that she might want to protect something else inside her from him, but she blew it off because she didn't want to think about it too much.

Camille rubbed her hair back from her face and decided that she felt much better. She felt Bane palm her breast through her bra that somehow remained on her chest, saw that his eyes continued to burn with hunger. She felt a brush on her inner thigh, looked down to find him still hard even after coming inside her. Her eyes found his again.

"You're not done?" she asked him, grabbed his shoulders when he lifted her off the dresser.

"Not in the least, darling Camille."

* * *

Unfortunately, his work called him away again before she could even finish dressing.

Illyas, who was on monitor duty, told him that Bruce Wayne's old butler had surprisingly returned home from the hospital just a few hours after his ambush early in the morning. He had many bumps and bruises, a broken arm and stitches here and there. But apparently the old man had not thought his injuries bad enough to stay in the safe confines of the Emergency Room. Wanting to heal in his own room with his own bed and blankets, Illyas watched the old man limp up to his doorstep all alone and softly close the door.

Bane knew the Batman's caretaker was injured much worse than he was letting on, had seen the agony and pain ripple through his face with his own eyes. But if he wanted to be stubborn and refuse proper care, then Bane would hope he died in his sleep.

More work kept him away for most of the day. Orders had to be given, men had to be directed, a city had to be maneuvered before it could be destroyed. And as he predicted, Gotham was in the midst of a nervous breakdown when they were told that James Gordon would be relieved of duty for healing until further notice. Forgetting the Nightwing because they weren't ready to accept him, the citizens of Gotham felt unprotected and vulnerable. The Batman was dead, the Commissioner was severely injured from a gunshot wound he would most likely never fully recover from, and Bane was picking people off like flies. And when thinking of that, they grew even more panicked if they really assessed their situation and remembered how criminals like the Joker were still on the loose and nowhere to be found.

Gotham was going to eat itself in its panic, Bane mused. He would enjoy the frenzy.

He returned to Camille late in the night, the thought of the Italian mob after him completely out of his mind because they were nothing to him and his army. His doctor seemed not to be allowing thoughts of her mother affect her the way he thought they might when discovering the things she had today. Or maybe she was once again locking it away deep inside herself so she wouldn't be reduced to the crying mess she had become the day she cut her thigh so long ago. But whatever the reason, she greeted him with desire in her eyes and an insistency in her hands, the redness of her cheek from the slaps of her mother's attempts faded and gone.

She may have been using her lust to cover up the pain. Bane suddenly thought of Talia, shook his head to clear it, and shed Camille's clothing as she did the same to him.

He made her grasp the bars of the headboard as she kneeled on her knees, spreading her thighs apart so he could kneel right behind her. He kept only her bra on her body, found that he enjoyed the sight of the pretty dark underwear she always seemed to be wearing. Bane rubbed his mask against the back of her neck after moving her long hair over her shoulder, reached forward and placed his large hands over hers around the bars before he slowly entered her, knowing that she wasn't really being given the time to heal from her soreness, and oddly not caring because they both refused to wait. Bane bucked her against the headboard, brought her to the point where she was loud and shameless, encouraging him with her words and her arousing sounds. He felt her body quake in front of his as he pumped into her, heard her gasp and moan when he hit the right spot.

"Right there," she breathed, closing her eyes because the pressure was almost becoming too much, savoring the feeling of his strong hips right against hers as he thrust inside her.

Bane reeled his hips back and gave her the long pushes they needed, moaned against her neck when she would tilt her pelvis back for more resistance. He ran his hands down her arms, grabbed her breasts before moving down to touch her waist. Going further, he ran his fingers along her wetness, made her whimper and clench around him, trailed her shiny arousal up her lower stomach. He watched as she turned her head to peek at him over her shoulder, rubbed the mouthpiece of his mask against her cheek in place of kissing her. Then she started talking to him again, driving him to madness with her tantalizing, breathless voice.

"Fuck me harder," she whispered to him, kissing him softly where she could on his face as she held his cheek with her hand.

Bane growled at her, wrapped one muscled arm around her waist and pulled her away from the headboard, bending them forward and holding himself up by his other hand and his knees. He held Camille's lower half against him as she set her own hands on the mattress, whimpering loudly for him as he pounded away at her flesh. Bane groaned against her hair, found that he desperately wanted to finish so he could feel the overwhelming release. He pumped at the speed he knew would undo him, rode her right through her orgasm and straight to his own. He bumped against her a few mores times as he finished, listened to her soft, satisfied cooing as she came down from the high.

Camille wondered what it said about her as a professional to be sleeping with her patient. She stared at the ceiling a few moments later on her back as Bane did the same right next to her, and thought back to the day she had met him for the first time. During most of their sessions together, he had been grumpy and irritated, weak and in so much pain she could do nothing to help him with because Dr. Arkham hadn't allowed it. She had tried so hard to get to know him so she could rehabilitate him, even though he hadn't told her very much about himself. She thought back to the arguments and the debates they would have, the fights they would get into because he would refuse to corporate or she wasn't satisfying him enough as his psychiatrist. But they had always remained somewhat civil and mature with each other, even through the irritations. Then he had kidnapped her, and things had changed. Then they knew each other, and the balance shifted.

Now, they lay exhausted and sweaty next to each other in his bed.

Camille's bra rose and fell with her chest as she waited for her heart to calm. "What happened to us?" she asked him, keeping her eyes on the ceiling and feeling the bed creak as he arched his back to crack it. "I used to go to work every morning to treat you. I was supposed to help you resolve past traumas, help you learn how to understand and improve your behavior. I used to have a prescription pad," she said with a raise of her brows. "Now we're here. How did we get here?"

Bane had one arm behind his head with his eyes closed, took a wheezing breath through his mask before he answered her. "Life is unbalanced," he murmured, telling her again something she knew all too well to be true. "The body knows what it wants. Desire can be just as crippling as love."

Camille took in his words, decided that maybe they were both too crippled on the inside for something such as love ever again. And because she was suddenly feeling a little chatty, she asked him about something she didn't think she should be asking him, for both their sakes.

"Would you consider me your lover?"

Bane slowly opened his eyes, turned his head to look over at her as his mask hissed softly. "Do _you_ consider yourself my lover?"

Camille looked over and met his eyes, wondered how she suddenly felt so comfortable with the man Gotham feared more than anything else, a man in a mask. She thought of his face beneath it, that handsome face she used to see every day when he'd been locked up and in pain. Maybe she liked him better this way. "I'm not sure if I like that word."

"Understandable," he said, and turned his head back to the ceiling as he smiled. "But you are."

Camille watched him for a few moments more, suddenly felt the need to curl herself against him or ask him to hold her, found that maybe she would be content enough to simply take his hand. She knew that they had remained touching each other after sex last night right before they'd fallen asleep. But to touch him now seemed somewhat different. She didn't really understand, found that maybe she didn't want to, but if she asked him to hold her now, she felt maybe that the thing inside her she was supposed to protect would fall, and not belong to her anymore. It was a risk she didn't know if she was willing to take.

But after she fell into a deep sleep and her restlessness controlled her body, Bane felt Camille roll closer to him and hug his arm.

* * *

He rested for about an hour as she slept. Feeling the need to get up, he unwrapped Camille's limps constricting him, scooted away from her sleepy, reaching hands as he pulled on his pants. He rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes, stretched and cracked his neck and shoulders.

Bane's eyes widened and his heart stopped when he saw the form of Talia standing right in front of him.

It was so quick. Not even for half of a second was she right there. He swore she was. She had to be because now his heart ached, now his chest felt heavy with something he couldn't quite place. He found himself suddenly longing for her, longing for the ability to speak to her, if only for a few moments, and ask her questions he felt he needed to ask for his sanity. He needed to hear her tell him things so he could know that they were true. He needed to prove certain accusations wrong so he could grieve for her normally, continue to love her when he knew she had felt the same way.

His dream the night before suddenly came to his mind, the image of Talia looking down at him as the men attacked him in the pit and refusing to help, simply watching, simply taking from him everything he'd already given her all over again.

Bane shook his head, forced himself not to think about things like that because he couldn't…

Couldn't what? he asked himself. What couldn't he do?

He couldn't do the impossible, he silently accepted. He couldn't believe certain things about Talia because he didn't know if he could survive it.

She was haunting him, plaguing him. Following him like a shadow in a way he didn't want.

Bane looked over at Camille as she clumsily threw the pillow away from her in her sleep, and decided that he needed an alternative distraction. Rising from the bed, he found Barsad in the common's area, watching the monitors of footage from various cameras they'd placed in areas that needed to be watched. They didn't speak, didn't have to because they'd been working together for so long. Movement from one of the screens had Bane's eyes drifting towards it, telling him that it was from the camera installed at the Batman's caretaker's home. Bane inched closer to the screen along with Barsad, watched as a man and a woman approached the door and simply walk inside.

"Who is that?" Barsad asked, tapping against the monitor for a better picture. Bane squinted as they rewound the tape.

His blood ran cold, his fists clenched, his thoughts turned dark as he watched and was given the truth about what had really become of a certain life. Something spread through him, something in the form of intense anger and anticipation mixed into one overwhelming feeling. Bane saw it there on the screen. His revenge, Talia's death, his defeat. It was right there and very much alive.

"That is Bruce Wayne," Bane answered cheerfully.

**TBC**

**A/N: Is there a fine line between love and lust? Can the grip of a ghost overpower the grip of the flesh? The next chapter will be very emotional, probably the most emotional yet. Be prepared, my darlings. Some minor changes were made to the image for Mercenary, so I hope you all love it. I work very hard for my loves who read and review, haha. PM me if you'd like to become friends on Facebook, and thank you so much for all the positive feedback. And no, I don't know when this will be published. *wink* **


	22. Lost in Paradise

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 22**

**Lost in Paradise**

"_I have nothing left. And all I feel is this cruel wanting. We've been falling for all this time." – Evanescence_

Bruce Wayne was alive. Bane didn't know if that very fact was terribly shocking or completely acceptable. Nuisances always returned, didn't they? Rodents always found their way out of the dark and straight to safety. The Batman had survived the bomb. To think of how exactly that had been accomplished was irrelevant, because he was _here_. Bane had seen him with his own eyes, had seen the ever-loving son return to care for the damaged replacement of a father, the only one who had been there for him when everyone else had died horribly. Bane didn't care where he was spending his days as a proclaimed dead man. Bane didn't care about what exactly he was doing with his life of no obligation. The Batman lived.

Bane would make him suffer once again.

And as he thought about it some more, he decided that he very much preferred him alive now rather than thinking of him as just another corpse forever floating in the bay. A strange anticipation sizzled along his skin, the excitement of finally giving the Batman that permission that would end him once and for all. But before he could give him that permission, something had to be accomplished first. Only this time, it wouldn't be the fire that would burn his city to the ground.

Bats weren't the only annoying little creatures who could return from the dark. The stray cat had also leapt from the shadows to cross his path again.

Bane once again rewound the tape to watch the adorable couple enter the old man's home to tend to him. He paused it, zoomed in as much as he could before the picture went fuzzy, and focused not on the man, but on the woman's face.

There she was. The crafty little jewel thief that had handed over the man she apparently loved to him in exchange for her own life. The pretty kitty that had become just a pesky and forgotten loose end. The stray black cat that had shot him with a high-powered cannon.

Selina Kyle was the personification of everything that had gone wrong the day of Gotham's reckoning. She was the manifested form of his defeat and Talia's unintended death. If she had not returned to destroy him, the Batman would be truly dead, Gotham would be a forgotten piece of ash, and Talia would have had her destiny fulfilled. She would have died as was planned instead of having to suffer in defeat. And because Gotham's kitten had ruined what was supposed to have been his and Talia's defining moment, their own _destiny_, he would make the Batman truly writhe in agony when he took away what was now most important to him.

A life for a life. Bane would break the Catwoman just as Talia had been broken.

And then the Batman would be no more.

Bane's handyman with technology Zaid sat at the computer, furiously typing with a heavy line in between his brows, the rags he always clothed himself in practically hanging off his long and lean dark body. Bane waited behind him, watching carefully as Zaid accessed the information he had ordered him to find. Barsad was also in the room, waiting patiently and forgetting the need for sleep as the rush of discovering surprising news ran through him. It was four in the morning, and none of the men wished for rest. Important work was to be done and sleep had suddenly become low of the list of priorities.

"I'll need just a few more minutes," Zaid told him, his voice heavy with a past dedicated to cigarettes and booze. His brown skin gleamed shiny in the light of the computer screen, sweat from concentration dotting his forehead. "The airport has once again strengthened their security from us hackers after the revolution. But they're no match for me."

Bane slowly cracked his knuckles as he intently watched the screen, and continued to wait for the information of Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle's flight plan.

Camille was still asleep in his bed and tossing around until she was lying diagonally across the mattress, the sheets pulled over her head and body so that only her legs were uncovered. He had peeked in before heading to Zaid's room where the hacker kept his fancy tools, felt himself roll his eyes as she continued to turn until she was content. The woman was definitely a pain to sleep with, had always been annoying in that area since the first night he had kidnapped her. He watched as her hand reached into the air, trying to grasp whatever it was she wanted as she slept. Bane turned away and walked off when he realized that it was his own body she was reaching for.

But he couldn't go to Camille now. There were two other women that needed his attention at the moment. One who would suffer, and one who would be avenged.

Zaid gave him a big toothy grin when he was finally given the answers he'd been looking for. "Mr. and Mrs. Damian landed in Gotham City earlier this evening from the Bahamas. Look at their pretty faces on the passports." Zaid tapped the screen that showed the false documentation. "Pretty clever. Very well-done. And he obviously knows he can't stay in Gotham for very long, in case someone would recognize him. They're already booked to depart in two days."

"Can you find out if they are staying elsewhere?" Bane asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Why wouldn't they just crash with the old man? But if she's the uptight kind of kitty, then they might have reservations somewhere else. She looks like the type who enjoys the finer things," he commented, and started on a different search. "It'll take me a while to get that info. I've got to search for two fancy needles in the exclusive haystack, so to speak. But if they are in a hotel, I can find out."

"Good," Bane said cheerfully, and gave him a hard pat on the shoulder. He looked to Barsad as Zaid rubbed his arm in discomfort. "Let me know as soon as he completes his work. Then we carefully plan, and head into the field."

"Are you going to break the Bat again?"

Bane shook his head. "This time, I will put down the stray cat."

Knowing that nothing else could be done until all information was obtained, Bane returned to his room and closed the curtain. He walked over to his bed, pulled the sheets away from Camille's hiding body, and watched as she jolted up with a lazy gasp, her eyes still closed and sleep still consuming her. She sat up in bed for a few moments, wearing nothing but her bra, her head falling back in unconsciousness before slowly lowering herself back onto the mattress as he crawled in next to her.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Bane somehow felt that he was living two separate lives. It was strange to terribly miss and long for one woman and return to bed with another. It was confusing to know that Talia was dead and still continue to love her while the woman he was sleeping with now had told him certain things about her that were making his chest feel tight. And knowing that, knowing and unable to forget the words Camille had said to him about Talia, how could he continue to be with her after she had said what should never have been brought up? How could he be watching her now as she slept and be fully aware of Camille's feelings concerning Talia?

Almost like two separate lives, Bane thought to himself, deciding that the feeling was very odd indeed. Two separate women, two separate worlds. Death and life. Love and lust. The past and the…

Bane drew his brows together and wondered when his own thoughts had become so confusing to him. Talia was his past, and she would always be his future, no matter where she was. She had been the light in the pit of Hell, she had been the one to save him from suffering. She had given him a destiny other than one of a prisoner, and had had a hand in him becoming the physical force that he was. Talia was not secluded to the past because Talia was _everywhere_.

And what did that make Camille? he thought suddenly, deciding that he now hated these confusing thoughts. Camille was not the future because there was no future with her. Bane had plans, and Camille could not be a part of them. She would have to leave again, and he knew she understood that as well. Talia was able to handle this life because it had _been_ her life. And while Camille understood just as well as he and Talia had about life and the cruelties it came with, she could barely survive an attack by a very cowardly rat. The one she feared the most was the very woman who had given birth to her. How was she supposed to thrive in a world of death and destruction? Bane watched as she stretched her limbs, arched her back, purred in her sleep as she turned to face him.

She had a lovely face, he mused. She had an attractive body, an intelligent mind. She had that spark of aggressive heat that would make him want to fan the flames so he could see the fire. She had made something of herself even through abuse and heartbreak, had received that understanding he had never known another woman besides Talia to have because of it. He knew her, and liked that knowledge.

But, he thought, as the face of another woman entered his mind and heightened his sorrow, how could he take her away when everything inside him belonged to someone else? How could he want Camille, and continuously inch back into the embrace of his ghost? Because Camille was wrong, Bane told himself, and turned away from her on the bed. What she had said to him before wasn't true because his heart couldn't take it. Talia was still his light. He began drifting off to sleep, and he felt Camille curl her fingers around the waistband of his pants, felt her rub her face onto his back.

But the warmth and familiarity of her body could not keep him from the memories of the dead.

* * *

_The day had much to offer. It was the day the fire would rise and claim the city that should not still be standing, the day the lives of a million corrupt people would burn in their shame. It was the day the Demon's Head would be passed on to someone else, the day of fulfilled destinies and realized goals that should have happened years ago. The day of reckoning for Gotham had finally come after months of waiting, months of fighting, months of securing. Finally they would be able to die for what they had lived for. Finally they would be able to rest in peace. _

_It was the last day he could be with her. The last day before death. _

_Bane walked into the room where 'Miranda Tate' was held hostage in City Hall, found her peering down through the window to watch the hearings below while court was in session. She'd told him that she liked front row seats to the sentencing of the corrupt, told him that she very much enjoyed watching from the second story as the guilty would be given a choice for death or exile. _

_She much preferred when death was chosen, and was able to see the body convulse from the shock of a hundred bullets. _

_Talia had dressed warmly since the power had gone off days ago in the large office above City Hall where Bane kept her. She'd pulled her brown hair back into a loose braid, left her face clear of any makeup to keep up the 'overwhelmed captive' appearance. Miranda Tate had enjoyed the feminine luxury of cosmetics, had needed them to keep up her professional businesswoman disguise. But Talia al Ghul had never needed any makeup to enhance her beautiful face. Talia al Ghul was perfect, and dangerous. Her mouth formed into a smile as she sensed Bane standing next to her. Her wonderful, and just as dangerous, protector. _

_He would always stand next to her. _

_Her smile deepened when she felt his large hand reach over and run down her hair. Her protector had always had an appreciation for a woman's hair. _

"_This is it, my love," she said to him, using that voice that was not of the businesswoman, but of the weapon she had always been. "This is the day we have been waiting for. My father's work will be done, and we can die peacefully. Finally, we will feel peace." _

_Bane continued to watch the people down below as Talia walked off to remove her jacket. This was the day, he agreed. But hearing her words now put an uncomfortable tightening in his heart. Hearing her anticipation was unnerving him, making him think. Not for himself, but for her. He turned to watch her as she continued to speak, continued to unnerve him. _

"_I used to hate my father. I hated him for taking you away from me. But right now, I've never felt more connected to him, never felt this kind of understanding. This city will burn," she said happily, wishing she could spin around the room in glee. "Peace is upon us now. And I cannot remember what true peace feels like. I believe we have never felt true peace." She looked over at him. "Do you?" _

_Bane took in her words, stared at her when he grasped them fully. He found that he didn't like her words now. Something fluttered in his chest, something that could make him feel sick if he truly discovered what it was. "I've always felt peace with you, Talia." _

_She smiled sweetly at him, made him remember the little girl she had once been. "Oh, you are precious, my love. But death will bring us a kind of peace no one person can give. I have never felt that," she murmured, her smile falling ever so slightly. "Only in death will I feel alive, and complete. And you will go with me. Because you love me." _

_A sadness he couldn't explain consumed him. He tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the pull on his chest as he listened to her and instead, focus on her happiness and her accomplishments. He tried to believe that what she was saying now was true, tried to accept it because it was what they had been planning for years. But something still wasn't sitting right with him. Something he had been agonizing over for months. _

"_I don't want you to die." _

_Talia sighed and rolled her eyes at him. "It is already done." _

"_The details can change. You can leave. I will stay behind, but you can live again, Talia." _

"_Stop it," she hissed, feeling the glare form between her brows. "Do you think I want to escape death? Do you think I want to allow you to lift me to freedom once again? I will stay right where I am because this is my destiny. I will _not_ live in the dark any longer. It has already been decided long ago. I will feel peace, Bane," she muttered, her hands fisting at her sides in annoyance. "How could you question my desires? You promised me you would always love me. Were you lying?" _

"_Of course not. What I question is your longing for true peace when I have given my life to make sure you have had it." _

_Talia drew her brows together as she stared at him, wondering where these feelings had suddenly come from. Her protector had never questioned her before, had always done what she asked because he'd always wanted to make her happy. To argue with her now confused her. He had once promised her a long time ago that he would never deny her. He would not start now. She frowned. "How could you want to keep me in the dark? How could you want me to cower away from the light for something as brief as an unfulfilled life? We have always done everything together."_

_At first, he didn't know what to say. He knew at the end of the conversation that she would win. His Talia had always been unmovable. But because he still felt the need to protect her, he found that he'd had to try and convince her to choose life instead of the fire. There had always been a slim chance that she would do what he wanted. He knew that. But he needed to try. "Yes, we have." _

"_You promised me. Remember? I need you to stand by me." _

_Bane stared at her. He remembered all the promises he had given to Talia, knew that he had never broken any of them. She was too important. She was too innocent to betray her, to tell her something and not follow through with it. So he would let her die with him so that she could be happy. He would bring her out of her darkness so that her dream could come true. "I will always stand by you. You know I will." _

_She gave him that smile again, that little grin that tore at him, that weakened him. They were to die on this day, and yet he didn't want to let her go. He wanted to be with her forever because she had been redemption in a pit of sorrow and evil. He had already given up his face and his health for her. It was only natural for him to give Talia his life for her happiness. He would die knowing it was for her wants and wishes. _

_But he found that he couldn't die without knowing if she understood the cost. _

"_Talia," he began, walking closer to her as his mask hissed, being drawn to her just as he'd always been. "This is our last day. And we have little time. I love you." _

_She continued to smile at him as he took her face into his hands, those powerful hands she had watched kill so many times. He had always been so very perfect. "I know, my love. Just as I know you will never leave me." _

"_Our last day," he repeated softly, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. He needed to tell her, he needed to ask her. He needed to know because he could not die without the words. "Tell me it was worth it, Talia. Tell me how you feel." _

_Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, the man who had brought a city to its knees for her. The man who could give her the stars. "You are more precious to me than anything else." _

_He felt that annoying anxiety grow within him, pushed it so far back inside himself it was almost completely lost. He couldn't deal with that now because she was right here, for just a little longer. She was alive and he could feel her. And soon, he would no longer be able to. Bane leaned his forehead onto hers, stared into her beautiful eyes, the eyes that had meant everything because nothing else had ever mattered. His little girl, his lovely woman. His heart. "I've given you my life. Tell me you know it." He tilted his head to the side, wanted so desperately to kiss her, but couldn't because he needed the comfort of medicine. He lost himself in her skin, in her eyes, lost in the place he had lived in for years, since the day he had saved her from the cruel, hungry men. _

_Talia ran her hands up his chest, felt the muscle, the power of him. She remembered what this body could do, felt arousal in the thought. And it was always for her. "Your life belongs to me," she whispered ever so softly. _

_Bane wrapped her body in his arms, held her against him, buried his face in her hair so he could always remember her this way, before the fire. He wanted her now, not how they would be. And because he was already mourning for her, the unsettling ache in his chest was covered up by grief. The part that questioned was consumed inside him, the dark place the truths of what had become of his life buried and forgotten. Talia's hands roamed all over him, held him, comforted him because no one could calm him the way she could. _

_No one could torture him the way she could. _

_She pulled him to the couch, smiled dazzlingly at him as he lowered her onto it. He felt desperation, and he didn't know why. Not desperation to touch her – he had always touched her with the greatest of care. And not desperation to have her – because just being with her this way was enough. But the words he had never heard still tortured him. The truth was pushed back again, and covered so that he could live through it for just a little while longer. _

"_Please," he whispered to her, watched her eyes as she caressed his mask with her nimble fingers. "Tell me you love me, Talia." _

_She smirked at him, and touched him. Smiled at him, and devoured him completely. He was lost in her because she was his home. He was hers because he could not belong to anyone else. Even in death he would forever wish for her, forever love her because he had never felt it before. Talia consumed him, held him, made him ache because she was the one and only. She was his love. "Mine," she hissed against him as he took her, dug her nails into him, tortured him because it was what she'd always done. _

_Bane learned to bury the truth for his own survival. He locked it away, covered it with denial, stopped wanting the words because he would never hear them. For now, she was here. _

_He would burn in the fire and continue to hold onto the lie. _

* * *

_But I didn't burn_, Bane thought, and realized, with great regret, that some lies could not hide in the dark forever.

For work, the day had been successful. For the goal, the necessary plans had been made. Trusty Zaid had discovered that Wayne and Kyle were staying at the Marriott, conveniently located just a couple blocks away from the old man's home. They stayed there under the same fake names printed on their passports, and would be leaving very soon to return to the life of the dead and forgotten. All day long Bane had hatched his scheme for revenge. All day long he made the necessary arrangements required to accomplish what needed to be done. He would avenge the plan that had gone so very wrong, along with his defeat and the new wounds he'd had to heal from because of the blast of a cannon. And he would avenge Talia, because he felt that the little girl he'd taken care of needed it.

He'd done all that he could do for the day. Everything was arranged, everything was decided. Tomorrow night the plan would be fully set into motion.

It was dark and cold, and he was so very tired for reasons that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion. It was somewhere around eleven at night, and Bane could not sleep. The dim light in his room cast shadows along the wall, a certain one he felt he could never escape from showing up everywhere because she could not truly die. He sat on the foot of his bed wearing nothing except for his pants because he felt oddly warm in the chill of the night, glancing around at the pools of black along the wall and watching them take the form of the body that would not leave him alone in dreams. He was so very tired, because he could no longer hold onto something that had possibly never been true. The part of himself he'd closed off on the last night he had been with his love was slowly opening, and grieving him to a point of exhaustion he'd never felt before.

Talia had never told him the words he found he'd needed to hear when it had mattered. Of course she had told him those words when she'd been a little girl, always telling him how much she loved him and that he took such good care of her, touching his face and smiling at him in the way that could melt him because she knew nothing else. But then she had grown, and their relationship had changed. Then he loved her as the woman, and had never heard those words from her mouth again. Bane dug his hands into his knees as he sat on his bed, and decided again that acceptance was very cruel.

What is this feeling? he thought to himself, and stared ahead into the nothing of his room as the waves of discomfort washed over him again. What was this emotion that was making him so tired, so sad, so alone? Why was his heart steadily clenching in his chest, so hard that he felt he would stop breathing?

Why was her face haunting him so, in dreams and reality? How could Talia be dead and still feel so very _alive_ within him? And why was he feeling as if he were dying?

She had once been so very important. She had once been so little and naïve that he'd had no choice but to raise the tiny life of a little girl as his own child, to hold her at night, to feed her, to protect her. She had been the innocence he'd never had, the redemption he would never have been given if it hadn't been for the cold, hard world outside the pit. He had been the parent she needed, the protector she could not live without. And even after she had grown, after she had become the woman he had wanted for different reasons, she still seemed so very important. Telling himself that now, he could almost push back the terrible truth, and lock it away for the rest of his days so he would never again feel the way he was right at this moment. But the voice of the woman on the other side of the war raging inside him spoke clearly, and said the words that made the truth slide a little more forward to the acceptance he'd tried denying.

_She went mad the moment she left you to die for her. _

Bane could feel his heart pounding away inside his chest as he listened to Camille's voice in his head. But Camille had to be wrong. She wasn't perfect. She didn't know everything. Talia hadn't left him, he'd lifted her away. Sent her away to freedom. He'd watched her climb as the fists of a hundred men tore at his flesh, broke his bones, marred him for life. He had watched her climb to the surface and leave hell. Because that was what he'd wanted for her.

_She did not love you!_

Bane shook his head, tried to make the voice of his doctor go away. But just like how it had been on the actual day, he couldn't keep her quiet.

_She loved you enough to watch you die for her pathetic revenge scheme. _

He felt like he couldn't breathe. He felt his chest was going to explode within him, felt that darkness that had kept him going rise up, higher and higher. He couldn't know the truth because it would undo him. He couldn't believe the unbelievable because he'd never had anyone else. But Camille's words were unrelenting, unforgiving as she caused that darkness to rise completely to the surface, and overflow.

_You were nothing more to her than her great protector. Her most precious tool._

It spilled out of him then, ran through his veins like blood when the lie was finally accepted as exactly what it was. The cruel acceptance he'd tried so very hard to deny burned his insides and scorched his heart. All of his life after Talia had become a part of it did he try and ignore the apparent heartbreak that had plagued him, the hard truth of what their relationship had actually been. Bane suddenly felt completely lost as he sat in the cold and dim confines of his room, felt that the years he'd given to his beautiful ghost had been years spent in a deluded haze. He thought acceptance was cruel. Heartbreak felt like death.

_That is not love._

Talia was gone. And he was alone.

Bane's chest heaved as he felt the pain he wasn't supposed to feel. He had never known true depression, maybe he had just pushed it away so he wouldn't have to. But his heart was broken, his anxiety on discovering truth felt as if it were killing him inside, and suddenly, he didn't know what to do with himself. Talia had been right when she'd spoken about true peace. He'd never felt it. He'd never had it. Happiness, as Camille had told him long ago, truly was an illusion.

He was alone.

Camille leaned against the wall as she watched him from the bathroom doorway wearing only a dark gray sweater and her underwear, watched him suffer, watched him break on the inside. She knew he was unaware, but she had always known of the battles going on inside him when it concerned the woman who had abused him emotionally. She knew Bane like she knew herself. She knew when the ghost of Talia al Ghul would wrap her hand around his neck, around his heart, and torture him as she'd always done. She had tried to explain to him in the midst of intense anger what had really been going on during his relationship with the woman he'd wanted to die for, but he had only responded in rage and had struck her in the face because of the truth he was discovering now for himself.

She hated what was happening to him. And because of that, she felt as if she could kill Talia all over again for hurting her patient even in death.

But Bane was unlike any other person she'd ever known. Maybe Bane, because of who he was and how he responded to things, couldn't accept the hard truth when it was thrown in his face. He needed to discover it for himself because his own thoughts were all he'd ever relied on. Bane didn't need to be _told_, Camille mused.

Bane simply needed to be understood.

But could she do it? she thought to herself as she watched him sit on his bed in sorrow from the doorway. She thought maybe she couldn't because she didn't want to feel something she would regret, something she had just gotten rid of in her own heart. Could she be the one to go to him, and fight his demons with him? Tell him the things she knew he needed to hear right now? Could she really put her heart on the line and be what Bane needed to get through his own suffering?

And while watching him now, it was then she realized, because her life had always managed to be confusing and somewhat twisted, that Bane was the only true friend she'd ever had. He'd been the only one to see her, to understand her. The only person she could ever relate to, in a world of unrelatable people. And he was suffering.

In his own way, he'd been there for her during her darkest hour. He had helped her break her soul tie from the one who had stolen her heart, and crushed it. And he was still her patient. The option of leaving him now all alone suddenly seemed so very foolish. So she wouldn't.

The psychiatrist in her wanted to explain to him the harmful effects his relationship with his former love had had on him. The woman in her, the woman who wanted him and could finally admit it, wanted to replace Talia al Ghul's touch on Bane, just as he'd replaced Jackson's touch on her body. But maybe the situation didn't call for either of those paths. Maybe approaching him now as the aggressive shrink or the lusting woman wouldn't help him at all. But inside her, she was both of those things. When she molded them she was nothing but herself. She would go to him and help him now as herself, disguises aside. Camille would go to him with complete understanding. Because she knew better than anyone else in his life how he felt, what he was going through right at that moment in time. She would be herself and she would understand. And she would let him know that it was time for them to take away the shadows of the ones who had held their hearts, and focus only on the ones who were there. She would tell him that through all their pain, all their suffering in life, that they weren't alone.

Camille rubbed her dark red lips together, and prepared herself to fight a torturing ghost.

She approached him closer until she was standing right in front of him as he continued to sit on the foot of his bed, watched him take in a long breath as he realized she was right there in the midst of horrible realization. But instead of telling him what he already knew, instead of making it more difficult, she calmly placed her hand underneath his chin and lifted his face up to look at hers.

The look in his eyes made her heart clench, the look of a man who, just moments earlier, had simply crashed and burned. The weight of the realized truth overwhelmed his tried eyes, the faith in the one who he thought had redeemed him gone and taken away likes ashes in the wind. She held him underneath his mask to let him know she was here, felt that maybe she was holding him up completely. She stared into those sad green eyes, and knew he had gone back to that place inside him that felt as if he were being beaten all over again in the pit, with no release, no lift to freedom.

She was here to be his rope to the sky.

"The truth can be terrible. Love can be crippling," she whispered to him, giving his own words back to him, and choosing them carefully. "It's harder when they're alive, isn't it? When they're right within reach to touch, but so very far away. I used to wish that Jackson was dead, so I wouldn't have to see him anymore, or hear his voice. I believe that it's easier when they die. It's… freeing. But then, after they are truly gone, there's no help for us who are left behind. No one, except others who know how you feel. And I do."

Her own words felt like a punch to the chest. She'd once told him that they were very much alike. Camille stared down at Bane, and saw herself.

It was then she realized that her story was his story.

They had both entered the world in abuse, both growing up in despair and darkness. Her prison had been her home, his home had been his prison. They both knew physical and emotional pain, knew what it was like to be unwanted and forgotten in the cold realities of the world. Knew what it was like to reply on medication as a crutch. And when that one person had come along, that one person they had given their hearts to because they'd never known what it was like to be loved, they had given that love their soul, enough to tie it completely. Jackson and Talia had taken their hearts when they didn't deserve them. Ra's al Ghul and her mother had taken their hope. They were the same. He was her, and she was him. Their pasts had always been what had bonded them right from the beginning.

The same.

"The past exists. We can't change it. But we can be free," she murmured to him, took the sides of his head into her hands and willed him to stay with her and not allow the shadow of Talia to consume him again. "Please be free, Bane. Break the soul tie and be free. Isn't that what you told me?"

Bane stared up at her, and listened. He could feel Talia everywhere, felt her ghost inside his heart and wished for her to be gone. So he focused on Camille and answered her softly. "Yes."

"Look at us. You and I… we're the same. We've been abused. We've been hurt." Camille moved her hand to the back of his neck, ran her fingers down the thick scar on his spine. She then picked up one of his hands, placed his fingers on the little scars that littered her forearm from a past of depression and loneliness. "We've had our hearts broken." She placed his palm on her chest to cover her heartbeat, felt his own as she held his gaze, knew his eyes were leaving the shadows and coming back to her. Her own words were overwhelming her, making her pulse quicken, making her heart ache and cry out for something she couldn't receive because she was too afraid to take it. But she had to keep fighting for him. She had to help save him. "Jackson and Talia… they're just shadows. I'm here," she whispered, felt the rising desire to remove his mask and feel his lips, and could only settle for taking his face in her hands again and repeatedly kissing the mouthpiece of his mask. "I'm right here."

Bane stared at her mouth, and felt the pressure inside his chest give just a little. Believing her words because he knew who she was, he felt the anxiety lessen. He felt the heat between them now, felt it as she touched him and soothed him, felt it as he suddenly became very aware that she wasn't wearing any pants. Lifting his hands, he ran them up the backs of her thighs, kept them at the curve of her bottom as she continued to whisper to him. Sighing, he rested his forehead against her collarbone, breathed in the scent of her as she moved her hands along his shoulders and back. The heat was rising, and Bane knew what he wanted because he couldn't think of anything else. Moving his hands up further, he pressed his face against her chest and felt the desire for her body once again, felt that same desire overpower the pain in his heart, and distract him. Camille needed him too, needed the release to ease the emotions of the heart.

"Enough suffering," she said to him, waited until he pulled her panties down her legs before she gently pushed him back onto the bed and climbed over him. Their eyes darkened as they stared at each other, as she straddled him and hovered. "One day we won't feel it anymore."

And then that heat ignited into fire. Bane rested back onto the stacked pillows and moved his hands all along her body as she sat on him, felt her weight and watched her face. He placed his hands on her hips as she leaned down closer to him, felt her hands run up his chest as she tilted his head to the side to kiss his neck. He felt the wetness of her mouth along his skin, felt the blood rush down to his lap as she sucked and bit and licked. No longer able to stand the barrier, he ran his hands up underneath her baggy sweater and pulled it over her head, making her sigh as he grabbed her hair and pull some on her curls. His pants were now so tight and he wanted them off, but didn't want her mouth to leave his skin as she bumped her pelvis into his.

She then sat up, and he raked his eyes along her body. She could drive him crazy with that body, that still so very sore body he needed to have again. Her breasts were covered in a red bra that matched the color of her lips, the pretty lace teasing and seducing him, making him want to keep it intact and rip it off of her at the same time. He made Camille scoot a little further up on him so he could reach past her and undo his pants, releasing himself so he didn't have to feel the pressure against the zipper.

He really was perfect, she thought, as she trailed her hands all along his upper body. Camille ran her palms up his strong arms and over his chest, feeling the solid muscle of his form underneath her fingers. How could someone be so hard and heavy? How could someone be so very powerful? She looked into his eyes again as she grazed her fingertips over his stomach in between her thighs, felt the flutters of arousal in her center as she continued to touch him, to soothe him, to help him understand that he wasn't alone. She couldn't remember feeling this much desire when she'd been married, couldn't seem to remember ever craving Jackson's body the way she found she craved Bane's.

How could she want him so much?

She could feel his length pressing against her backside, looked into his eyes again and felt a sudden desperation to have him now, knew he felt it too so he wouldn't have to suffer anymore. She must have been taking too long for him in the midst of her caresses. His hands had just been unbuttoning his pants and his legs kicking them away. Now, his fingers were feeling the wetness of her center. Camille couldn't stop the small whimper from escaping her mouth, found herself trying to part her thighs even more so she could feel his large fingers in her heat.

Bane stared down at the motions of his fingers, held the back of her thigh with his other hand as he felt her slick arousal. He touched her moist entrance with the tip of one finger, hated that he had yet to feel the inside of her this way. He heard Camille sigh deeply and reach back to touch his erection, rasped low in his throat when he slid his finger in her wetness as her hand began to work him. She shivered, he cursed, wanting so desperately to taste her if only to make her beg him to stop. But right now, he didn't want to be inside her this way. Right now, he didn't want her hand. He needed the distraction her body could bring him more than foreplay. He needed to hold onto this desire so he wouldn't feel the water rising above his head. Bane suddenly grabbed Camille's hips and lifted, tilted her forward some so she had to place her hands back on his chest. He hovered her opening right over him, held her there as he spoke.

"Ride me," he told her simply.

And because she wanted to give him back the control he had lost when it came to his wants, wanted to give him back that part of himself he had lost in Talia, she did as he asked, and lowered herself onto him.

Bane groaned deeply as she maneuvered herself onto his cock, sunk onto him as far as she could go because they both wanted it. He heard Camille make the smallest pained noise, waited for her to move as she adjusted and tried to ignore the stretch that was still a little hard for her to take. But when she finally started to rock on him, she shuddered and felt complete. When she lifted and sat again, he could finally breathe and simply feel.

He watched her pouty mouth as she moved on top of him, watched those teeth sink into her bottom lip as her body suddenly seemed to remember how to please a man this way. She dug her fingertips into his chest, rocked and bounced her hips on him in an expert rhythm that came from years of having a very selfish former lover. Bane felt his heart pounding in his chest as he stared at her, as he watched this very free woman take and give like she'd never had before.

But it seemed that the grip of his ghost was not as willing to leave him alone just yet.

Bane watched Camille ride him, held onto her hips as she did, and couldn't help but remember how Talia had been the only other woman he'd ever allowed to be on top of him for sex. He had always preferred being in complete control for all the other extremely brief affairs of his life, had never given any other woman the chance to please him this way because it was easier and better for him to take what he needed for release. He was dominant, and had never trusted another woman enough to give her this kind of control over him. But he trusted Camille, had trusted Talia. His grip on her hips lessened just a little as the face of his ghost came to his mind, reminded him of what had been, and made him close his eyes in the sorrow of it.

"Bane."

He could hear Camille. She called to him even as she continued to ride him, consumed him with her body and tried to bring him back once again. She spoke to him knowingly, pleading with him to come back to the moment and let her help.

"Open your eyes," she whispered to him, waited until he did and remembered when he had said the exact same thing to her in the exact same situation. "Don't think of her. Just think of me."

And the only way he could was to sit up further on the pillows, grab her hips once again, and command her.

"Go _harder_," he growled.

With a dark expression on her face, she placed her hands on the mattress above his shoulders to lean down some, and slammed her hips onto his as hard as she could.

Camille moaned as Bane made an appreciative snarl in his throat that sent him sitting up with her in his lap, and thrusting up into her as she sank down onto him. He reached up and grabbed her hair, pulled her head back and dug the mouthpiece of his mask into the front of her neck, moaned against her skin as she clenched hard around him with every sink onto his cock. Feeling the insanity now, she used all the strength she had in her to push him back down onto the pillows and ride him in a blind desperation. She milked him with her walls, pumped him in the exact way that would drive them crazy.

"Just think of me," she repeated, and rolled her hips on him to push him closer to the edge. A little sound of something between a squeal and a moan left her lips as she rode him, pinned him, pummeled his system with a pleasure too outrageous for a reason. Energized him so that he would fight for his soul, fight for his heart.

"Camille," he groaned, the first time she heard her name on his lips in the middle of sex. He took her hips harder into his hands and forcibly moved her up and down his erection, knowing better than she did what it would take to empty him with her.

And after a few moments, he did empty as she came around him, spilled himself inside her and let the stress leave his body. Camille cried out like she always did when she came, holding onto his shoulders and his chest as the pleasure overflowed and trembled through her body. He closed his eyes and felt her black curls brush his skin as she leaned forward to catch her breath, felt their warm releases inside of her before he lifted her off of him and onto the sheets next to him. He heard her purr softly as she turned onto her side.

And for some reason, even after sex when they usually rested next to each other, he found that he needed to get away. For some reason, he found that he needed to be alone. He almost flinched when he felt Camille softly touch his arm, refused to look over at her because he didn't want her to see when the confusion and heartbreak would overtake him again.

Because he could feel it coming back. And knew he needed to handle it alone this time. He needed to remember how to endure. How to survive.

"She's not coming back," Camille murmured to him, and he didn't know if she was reminding him, or consoling him.

"I know."

Bane pulled up his underwear, crawled off the bed, and left Camille for the lonely confines of ghosts and darkness.

* * *

Heartbreak was death and acceptance was cruel. After a lifetime of protecting her, caring for her, making her the lifeline in an ocean of insanity, Talia was dead.

And, Bane told himself, staring at his reflection in the dusty mirror of an old and dirty bathroom, she had never loved him.

She did once, he thought back, remembering the child instead of the woman. She had loved him once, but not when it had mattered. Not when he had needed it for his own survival. Not when he would have died just to hear her say it. When he had loved her as a man loved a woman, she had not felt the same. Maybe she couldn't. Maybe he hadn't taught her well enough. Maybe, while practically growing up in Hell, the feeling of love was just as fantasy as the freedom they thought they'd never have.

When had she stopped loving him the way she used to? When had the grip of madness truly taken his Talia and made her submit to it completely? He could admit it now, only after the realizations that were making his chest hurt so badly he was almost completely overwhelmed by it. Maybe, in only Hell on earth, could a child be taken by insanity.

Acceptance may have been cruel, Bane decided, but it was definitely the lifting of a veil that should never have been on him in the first place.

He could remember now the reservations he had felt when it came to the intimate relationship that had formed between them in the League of Shadows. He could see clearly the manipulations and the lies he'd been told that Talia had disguised as love and adoration. He may have wanted her during their training, but he _knew_ something was off, something that wasn't quite right when she had come to him that first night they had coupled. Looking back now, he hated himself for allowing it, for letting an old love for her and desire overpower his sense of what was right, of what was truth. He'd told her he couldn't be with her, but he had been. He'd told her that the past couldn't be changed, but he'd ignored it so he could have her in the way he wanted.

And she had sunk her claws into him so deep that even now, in the midst of heartbreaking realization, did he still miss her, did he still love her.

And he could still feel her. Bane could still feel her haunting him, reminding him of what she'd been to him, as a child and as a woman. But he knew he couldn't feel her like this anymore. He didn't want to because he would surely die in sorrow and shame. It killed him to think it, killed him to know it was what had to be done. But Talia needed to leave him. He had to learn to live without her.

He stared into the mirror, reached so far inside himself to find his heart, willed himself to see it. And when his little girl appeared in the mirror instead of his own reflection, when Talia as a girl stared back at him with those big, innocent eyes, his heart broke all over again.

It would be impossible to let _her_ go. Some loves were meant to stay, little loves that had once cuddled and cried and laughed. There she was, Bane thought, remembering the precious baby that had never had a chance. His redemption. And his ultimate binding to torture. Little Talia would forever remain in his heart. And maybe the woman would too, in a special place he would leave just for her because she had once been so very important. He could almost be thankful now for the memories of the past with her that had plagued him since his days in the asylum. He knew now that it was just leading up to this. This time of letting her go as the everything he had made her to be.

His eyes stared into the mirror in sadness as the little girl faded away, hardened some even through the sorrow as the woman he had loved so desperately took her place. How could she not have loved him? How could this beautiful woman not care for him the way he had for her, knowing what he had done for her? He would spend the rest of his days with an addiction to harsh medicine because of his love. He would forever be submissive to a handicap that covered most of his face. His body may be strong, fit, and dangerous, but without the mask he was nothing. Without the mask, no one would remember him.

Without the mask, maybe Talia would have left him alone.

_Your life belongs to me._

She had said that to him once. She had claimed him in her torture. But no more. It was time to let her go. It was time to feel freedom from a ghost.

Bane lifted his hand to the mirror, ran one finger down the glass where Talia's cheek was, and felt his heart lurch in his chest as he remembered the last thing he had said to his little girl as she'd made her way to the light. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. It felt even harder now, to let her go, to once again lift her away from him to a world he didn't know. And could not follow.

"Goodbye…" he murmured, and watched as she faded from the glass. "My friend."

He stared at himself now, at the mask that crippled him because of the manipulations of one woman. Heartbreak was death. Acceptance was cruel. It had been a lifetime of devotion, of imprisonment.

And anger was pure deliverance.

Bane sniffed out an exasperated breath, fisted his hands at his sides and left the old bathroom in destruction. His eyes felt wide in rage, his feet stomping along the ground until he finally returned to his room, returned to the space of his ultimate and terrible discovery. Returned to the other woman who had rushed it for him. He approached the bed closer, an anger so heavy and so strong for the life he had wasted consuming him, gripping him. He had lifelong chronic pain for _nothing._ He suffered through heartbreak now because he had been weak.

He could feel himself practically shaking in his anger. And didn't know who else to turn to. Bane pulled everything off his body until he was standing completely naked as he watched her, and seethed.

Camille stared at him, knew he had gone off before so he could grieve for the past. Knew that he felt rage now because of it. She thought again about how Bane was unlike anyone she'd ever known. And anger now was his own way of coming to terms with everything that had happened, and finally accepting it completely. And because she had been the one to be there for him when he'd needed her, she was now the one to take the anger so he could be okay.

_I wouldn't have done that to you, Bane. I would never ask you to _die_ for me. _

But she _would_ be the one to save him.

She heard Bane make an angry sound deep in his throat, was already pulling the sheets off her body and holding her arms out to him as he rushed her in rage. She tried to remain perfectly still as he ripped her bra from her chest, shredding it to pieces as he did so and spreading her still so very weak legs apart hard, making them scream at the force. She braced herself as he climbed over her. She prepared herself to take all his anger, all his pain as he hovered.

Bane slammed himself inside her with his unimaginable strength, growling as he pushed and hit her limit painfully.

Camille couldn't stop the yelp, couldn't stop the hiss or the grasp to his sides as he instantly began pumping himself with her center that had never healed from the soreness of the night she had returned to him. She tried to hold in another shriek as Bane used all his weight, all his might to pound into her, not in the way that had always been pleasurable for them both. But in a way that was hurting her, tearing her, his thrusts into her body crushing her.

She held onto his sides, rested her cheek against his pounding chest, and took it all. Took it all for him.

Her breath became shaky as Bane grabbed ahold of the headboard, slammed into her so hard, squeezed the bars so tightly that the creaks and cracks of the bed were signs of it breaking. Camille squeezed her eyes shut and tried so hard not to scream, tried to ignore Bane's grunting and panting as he let go of all the heartbreak, all the emotional pain inside him. The strength that could kill men so easily was crushing her, but she let him continue because he needed it, needed her to help him.

They were the same. It was the only thought she could hold onto so she wouldn't yell at him to stop, so she could find the strength to give him what he needed, to be what he needed her to be for him. The pain was horrible, but she would survive. She would heal.

They were the same.

Bane growled against her as he came again inside her, panted hard and gripped the headboard of the bed, trembling now as the fist around his heart finally eased and let him go, and as the ghost that tortured him left so that he could live. He shook everywhere, banished the face of Talia from his mind, and let the raw emotion consume him so that he could be free.

Maybe never completely free. But free enough not to suffer this way any longer.

He quivered, he quaked. He panted, and buried his face in the curls of Camille's hair underneath him. He felt her arms wrap around him tightly, felt her breath along his chest as she rubbed his back.

"It's okay," she whispered to him, and kissed his chest softly, moving her lips steadily up to his neck and all over the places she could kiss on his face. He closed his eyes, simply felt her lips along his skin, and let her hold him. "It's okay."

Bane pulled himself out of her, felt her whole body wince and knew she held in a soft cry of pain. But he could only take in the feather kisses of her lips along his face, her soft body below him.

He opened his eyes and stared into her black ones, kept staring as she kissed the mouthpiece of his mask. How could she still be here? he thought. How could she not have left him? He felt her thighs quiver around his waist, rose a little so he could get off of her.

"No." Camille took the back of his neck, spoke softly to him. "Stay right here. Lay on me."

She saw the hesitation in his eyes, almost opened her mouth to tell him again. She wanted to be here for him, wanted him to rid Talia al Ghul from his soul. He would know that he wasn't alone. He would know that he was understood. She felt him relax some, and slowly rest his cheek on her chest.

Camille's eyes widened and her jaw clenched as her own idea completely backfired on her.

It spread deep within her chest at first, and then calmly flowed throughout her entire body. She stared up at the ceiling, felt the give of her heart and the surrender of it as Bane nestled himself on top of her, rubbed his face on her chest in comfort. She felt a fast breath leave her as she held him closer, held him to her even while she hated herself for what had happened. She wasn't supposed to have felt this ever again. She was supposed to have been too crippled for that emotion. She didn't want this. This wasn't the plan, had never been the intention.

_Why you? _Camille thought, and held her arms around him, rubbed his skin soothingly without realizing it, ignored the pulls on her heart because this couldn't be reality. _What have you done to me?_

She held Bane all through the night, and suffered through this new ache in her chest.

_Why?_

**TBC**

**A/N: The song for this chapter practically sums up this whole story, this whole relationship. This very weird, very dark romance. My wonderful darling Line Sagittarius has drawn another lovely picture of Camille. Go check that out on Deviant Art, if you'd like. The flashback of Bane and Talia during the revolution is the security footage that Camille watched of them back from chapter 10. Their last real moment together before she died. And just in case anyone's wondering, Mercenary will be completed in 26 chapters. I hope it's not become too long for any of you, but I had a big story to tell, a big relationship to create. I love you all, my darlings. Please review for me, and tell me your thoughts. **


	23. Season's End

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 23**

**Season's End**

"_Don't say goodbye like we'd never meet again. Leave me a lie at the season's end." – Kamelot_

Soft fingertips trailed slowly down his scarred spine, the heartbeat underneath his cheek thumping contently. Bane steadily breathed into his medicine, felt the faint rise and fall of Camille's chest as he rested his face there, feeling the beat of her life against his skin. He almost shivered from the feeling of her fingertips as they travelled up and down the middle of his back, so very slowly, so very softly. Upon waking up, he discovered one of his hands entangled in her curls, grasping a few of the locks like a rope. Keeping his head where he was oddly very comfortable, Bane looked over to his other hand.

Their hands were palm to palm, his resting on top of hers just as the rest of their bodies were. Her fingers laced through his, holding on even while his remained loose. Bane stared at their joined hands, noticed how his almost consumed hers completely. But still her fingers gripped him. Still she held his hand as he rested on her. She must have felt his body tense slightly when those fingers of hers uncurled, releasing him from the grip she felt he'd needed.

Bane sighed at her touch on his spine, buried his face into her bare chest as he began to wake up a little more.

The fist around his heart had unclenched last night, the grip of Talia floating away just as her ghost did from the air around him. Finally he could let her rest in peace and not feel the need to follow her. Finally he could live without her slowly destroying him. But even if the fist had loosened, her face, the sweet face of the child and the lovely face of the woman, would still be lost within his heart, right in that darkness where they could never escape each other.

The light was blinding. Bane and Talia hadn't known how to live any other way.

Now she was gone, and he could be free. Now she was dead, and he could finally live for himself. It would take some adjusting, but he was easily adaptable.

He felt Camille's legs stir on either side of him, felt her rest her hand flat on his back. He took one more moment to sink into her, rested on her for just a little bit longer before lifting his head from her chest and staring down at her.

She took a deep, overwhelmingly loud breath in as he removed his weight from her, finally able to expand her chest the way she needed to without the pressure of a three hundred pound man lying on top of her, the only thing that could hold her down during a usually restless sleep. She felt the need to cough, held it in as she looked up at him, her black eyes still full of exhaustion after a very long night of holding him. And as she stared up at him, remembering the hours of comforting him during probably the worst moment of his life, she tried to ignore that ache in her chest, that flutter in her heart.

This couldn't happen to her again. He was the worst possible choice. And she could never belong.

Bane untangled his hand from her hair, decided to take her wrist with his other so she wasn't holding his hand anymore. Her lips were stained that dark red he'd always found so alluring, her black hair a mess above and all around her head. Her soft body beneath him was still naked from the night before, and at some point she'd lifted the sheets to drape them over his hips. He felt her shiver slightly, and reach behind him to pull those sheets up a little higher on his body for warmth.

She'd told him last night that they were the same. But how could that be true? he asked himself. They were polar opposites. He broke people, she restored them to mental health. He ignored the law, she obeyed it because she had always been just another face in society.

But he knew, somewhere deep inside her, that Camille didn't care for society the way she would let others believe. She had told him herself that the rules of the world were wrong, knew in her heart that she had been severely wronged by the _good guys_ who should have saved her from abuse. She hated Gotham. She hated what society itself had become because the line between right and wrong was extremely fine. He wondered what she would have become if she'd merged her beliefs with her actions. He wondered what she would have made of herself if she thought more like him.

But… Camille did think like him, he reminded himself. The similarities between them were constantly growing, constantly surprising him. She knew what he knew, believed what he believed. But she had just had a slightly different set of circumstances that forced her to choose a path different from him. Bane had been created without ever having been in the system. Camille had had no other choice but to try and make it work for her. They may have operated on different sides of the law, but at the end of the day they were the complete evidence of that very fine line. Camille was smart, tactical, insightful, and aggressive at times, when that Italian temper would start to simmer. She had turned away from the world, ignored society because it had only given her heartbreak.

In different circumstances, she would have been him.

_You and I… We're the same._

The same. It was hard to believe. But at the same time, it was understandable.

Camille kept her hand on his shoulder as the other reached up to brush her fingers against the skin on his face that she could feel. She felt like she needed to adjust her body a little more, but didn't want to feel the terrible, icy hot ache between her legs, didn't want to feel the evidence of Bane's anger because of horrible realization and hard acceptance.

Never, in the few times they had been together intimately, had he used that kind of force on her. Sure, he'd been rough. So had she. It was how they liked it. But to feel the true strength of his body, to have that weight and all that muscle completely used against her had been a different feeling entirely. And when combined with the rage he had felt after returning from fighting his own inner demons and accepting the impossible, it had almost been too much for her to handle. She thought maybe she was bleeding. Surely in that powerful force had he torn her somewhere. She didn't know. And even after that, even after suffering for it now with pains and aches, she would still do it all over again. Bane had needed her last night. Whether he knew it for himself or not, without her there for him, she didn't know if he would have survived his realization about the woman he had loved so desperately.

She had wanted him to be free. She had wanted to be his rope.

She feared that maybe she had tied herself completely because of those wants.

But she couldn't think of that now. She was tired of thinking about the matters of her heart. There was nothing here. She would have to live without him eventually. Bane was just a phase. First he had been her patient, then her ruthless kidnapper. He may be her lover now, but soon that title too would pass. It had to, because she couldn't take it any other way.

Bane closed his eyes at the feeling of her fingers travelling over the skin of his face, moved his head along with her caresses so he could feel more. He didn't know how early it was, and he didn't really care. The plan was stagnant until nightfall, and he was perfectly comfortable right here. But while thinking of the plan, while remembering the decisions he'd made, he opened his eyes again to look back down at her, and knew what needed to be done. And for a second time.

"You need to return home tonight," he murmured to her, and watched her eyes for reaction.

She continued to watch the movement of her fingers, seemingly ignoring him because she knew this moment was coming. She knew from the first second she had returned to him that it would not be forever. They were only together now to get rid of frustration and not have to regret the decision of ignoring it. But even as she heard the words she had always known would come, something squeezed in her chest and made her wish he would retract them.

But of course, he couldn't. Because it was final. She was leaving in just a few hours.

That squeeze in her chest moved down to her stomach and made her feel sick, made her feel the need to tell him something he wouldn't allow. Camille quickly shifted her legs some, held in a hiss from the pain shooting across her lower body, and was glad for the distraction. And even though she didn't want to because she didn't want the effects, she looked into his eyes staring down at her. The incredible eyes. Those eyes that showed so much. Camille took his shoulders, and moved so that he was completely over her. Her legs were shaky, but she wrapped them around his waist. Her heart was saying no for her own benefit, but she pulled him closer.

One last time before she left. One last time before she never looked back.

Bane knew what she wanted and leaned down so that she could move her hands along his body. He knew she wanted him to kiss her, knew that he would if he could, but had to settle for placing the mouthpiece of his mask against the side of her face, and breathing in her hair.

Camille kissed his face and his neck as she bumped her very sore pelvis against his. She handled the pain, took it all in so that she didn't have to feel the aches in her chest instead, that little voice in her mind that was telling her things she would never have. She rubbed against him, touched him and kissed him until she felt him harden, until she felt the moisture in her own center even through the soreness. She didn't care about it, because it would soon go away. She would rather have him now, before she would have to leave. She hooked one arm around his neck and pressed her cheek against his as he positioned himself, squeezed her eyes shut in discomfort as he slid back into her heat.

Bane rested his forehead on her shoulder, held himself up by his forearms on either side of her. He knew she was in pain. He knew that he had hurt her after taking her the way he had the previous night. But to feel her underneath him now, to feel the inside of her that would always drive him crazy, it was worth the risk for both of them.

He rocked his hips against hers, pushed into her completely before sliding back out and repeating the process. Every other time had been rough and hard, with a quickness they'd needed to reach and feel release. But this time felt oddly different. This time he went slow because he wanted to remember her body. Bane felt her hands at his back, slowly moving them up and down, caressing him with those soft fingers on his damaged skin. He lifted himself enough so that he could look down at her face, and watch the pleasure glitter in her eyes.

Camille sighed deeply as Bane moved inside of her, held onto his back like an anchor because now her chest felt like it was going to explode. She decided to concentrate on his body, probed harder on the muscles that bulged out of his strong back. She wished she could stay like this for hours and not think of anything else. She wished she could forever touch his skin instead of returning to the world that had forgotten her. She didn't like it, but she accepted it. She wondered if maybe she had missed it at all, and dismissed the idea completely. She moaned softly and raked her nails down Bane's back, wishing he could go harder but knew she couldn't handle the force right now. She watched his eyes darken as she clenched around him as tightly as she could, dug her nails into him even further in arousal. She gripped him hard, tried to concentrate on the pleasure instead of the pain, and simply felt.

Bane slid one of his hands underneath her head and into her hair as he rode her, leaning most of his upper weight there so he could touch her with his other hand. He ran his fingers down her body, travelling over every curve, every soft surface, memorizing the planes of her body because this would be the last time. He cupped her breast, made her moan again as he rolled his hips into hers, steadily pushing her to that place inside her that became fierce and aggressive during sex. He ran his hand further down, grabbed her bottom to firmly keep the leg around his waist in place. He watched her face, and pulled all the way out of her only to firmly thrust back in again.

Camille hissed in a breath, made a face of discomfort even as she moaned, feeling the pain and pleasure merge into one overwhelming feeling. She took the sides of his neck into her hands, tried not to look too pained for him as he stared down at her. He still pumped into her slowly, but firmly, making her body move up and down on the bed underneath him as he bumped into her with that great length, those strong hips. Lust filled the voids and the hollows, no matter how deep in them, no matter how wide. He would give it to her, take it for himself. With patience, with firmness.

He sighed deeply that rumbled low in his chest, rolled his hips into her just a little bit harder because he needed it. He wanted to feel her clench around him again, wanted to feel her throb around him and see what he could do to her. But because she was hurt, she would need just a little help to go up and over. With just the right touch, he could make her orgasm even while injured. Bane reached down between their bodies and touched that sensitive spot on a woman that could bring madness, bring utter release. He watched her moan for him again as he rubbed her, felt the rising need to ride her harder and faster with every sound she made, every movement of those hands whispering along his body. His hand tightened in her hair, his hips rolling into her that made him groan, made her gasp. He bounced her body on the mattress, rubbed her faster as he felt her tighten around his erection. Until finally he coaxed that orgasm out of her, finally he could pump firmly into her so that he could have his own.

She breathed his name as he came inside her, held him close as he buried his face into her neck and moaned, a deep, muffled sound of his pleasure. She whimpered softly as he pulled out of her, wished that he would return and at the same time, glad that she wasn't going to be having any more sex anytime soon. Her body was spent from Bane's large and solid form, and from their hot desires to take each other the way they had the last few days. She suddenly felt very cold when he rolled off of her and onto his back next to her, and pulled the sheets up for warmth to cover her naked upper body.

They rested like that for a while, each of them staring up at the ceiling she would probably never see again. Acceptance was cruel. For what seemed like the thousandth time, the phrase entered his mind once again. And lingered.

"I will be leaving here tonight," he told her, and kept his eyes on the ceiling as she did the same next to him.

That annoying ache seemed to be everywhere on her body, and all along inside. She hated it. "Where are you going?"

He took a deep breath, his mask hissing sharply. "Somewhere you cannot follow."

She knew that. Of course she knew that. Of course she couldn't follow him. Camille swallowed some, and questioned in a whisper anyway. "Why not?"

Annoyance flooded him, something Camille always roused in him. How could she ask him that? How could she ever let those words escape from her lips? She knew the truth. She knew what this was, still knew it. But it annoyed him all the same. "We cannot escape our pasts," he murmured to her, stretched his arms out at his sides underneath the sheets. "Mine is hell on earth. You will not follow."

"You think I don't know what hell is like?" she asked him softly. "Hell is home."

Bane thought back to cold nights and hot, sunny days that burned the skin and heightened thirst. He thought of the shouts of men as they destroyed innocence, the wails of the weak as they suffered and died. The years in a blur that hadn't mattered until the soft cries of a little girl filled the dark. And then the pain that had come from a hundred fists. "Yes, it is," he answered.

She was quiet for a while, and then he felt her shift some. Without looking at her, and knowing she avoided his gaze as well, he felt the very soft brush of her fingers against his hand under the sheets, the simple touch making him want to flinch. Making him want to reach for more. But he remained still.

"Don't die," she whispered to him.

Bane knew he had to get out of bed. For work, and because the pressure in the room suddenly rose and made him uncomfortable. He needed to preoccupy himself with planning. "I won't," he muttered, and rolled out of bed.

"Sleep now," he called to her over his shoulder, and went in search of his clothes.

* * *

After a lifetime of running, after years of hiding and fighting and clawing her way to the lifestyle she'd always wanted, she could finally take a deep breath and rest. She could finally sit back and enjoy without an ulterior motive, without hours and hours of planning, without the headaches if the job was a little more complicated than what she liked. Finally she could live.

Finally she was free.

She travelled the world now. Hadn't that always been the goal after she was officially wiped off the face of the earth? She could rest easy and be herself without the annoying shadow of a record behind her, the constant act of always looking over her shoulder. She was simply _gone_ as far as documentation was concerned. And now she could see all the places she'd only dreamed of, the foreign lands that had seemed so far away just about two years ago. She ate the best foods, stayed in the best hotels and houses when they wanted to feel alone and secluded from the rest of the world. She was living her dream. Free as a bird.

But, she told herself with a smirk, she would be lying if she said she hadn't missed Gotham City.

She may have had the freedom she'd always wanted, may have settled for a more honest life because that had been the terms of agreement if she wanted the man, but Selina Kyle would always feel a pull to the dark and the dangerous.

Setting down her shopping bags in the entrance to her suite at the Marriott and yanking off the blonde pixie-cut wig, Selina smiled lazily and wondered how she could be so lucky.

Bruce Wayne had changed her life. She'd never tell him that, of course. Had never cared for that smug grin that would always spread across his face when he forced her to tell him she loved him. But after the first moment she'd met him on the night of a misleading anniversary party long ago, she had begun her decent downhill only to rise to the very top. The decent had been hard and scary, full of nerves and full of failure, a time in her life where she'd become so confused with the man who was making her question her choices, and with herself for questioning at all. In the midst of hell, the revolution that had been led by possibly the worst man she'd ever known, she had done things she never saw herself doing. It should have been her perfect world. It should have given her that freedom, and that reason to take what she wanted from the people who gave nothing.

But it had become a horrible world. And she'd found herself becoming sad for the punished, sad for the rich that had never given people like her a passing thought before they were stripped bare.

She had returned to the fallen city after being given the keys to the exit, and had destroyed the masked man who had always made her so uneasy.

What happened to you? Selina asked herself, walking to the window dressed in a baby blue turtleneck sweater and comfy white skinny jeans. Why did you stay with the man who was your complete opposite after being given the tool that would erase you? She and Bruce had stuck together after being released from the life of obligation, and remained inseparable even months after his faked death and her disappearance from the system. He made her see the world differently, she had helped him trust again.

Now, she was married to the guy, she thought with a roll of her eyes as she gazed down at the city below her.

Why had she stayed? Because she loved the fool. Why had she married him? Because she found that she couldn't live without him. She knew it was sappy, but sometimes a gal needed a little sap in her life, didn't she?

Selina walked back over to her shopping bags and began unloading, stopping only to admire the silk of new clothes or the glint of a new necklace. All paid for, of course. Bruce had told her they needed to live life on the straight and narrow if their new existence was going to work. And because she rather enjoyed this new life, enjoyed the man who was still beside her after all this time, she had figured why not?

Besides, _shoplifting_ clothes and jewelry was a complete waste of her talents.

Lighthearted, she picked up the flowers she had purchased on her way home for Bruce's Alfred. Her husband was there now, caring for the man who had always cared for him, soothing him back to health after sustaining injuries that still sent a shiver up her spine.

He shouldn't have survived. Bane should be a rotting skeleton in the ground after she'd blasted him with the cannon, after she'd returned to help the one who had suddenly meant so much to her. But he _had_ survived, and it had shocked them. And instead of terminating him, like she thought they should have done, the city had locked him in the crazy house and thrown away the key. And to her and Bruce, Bane surviving was the _only_ thing that had shocked them.

Of course he would have escaped sooner or later. Of course someone as smart as him would find a way to rise back to power. Bane was unlike anyone Gotham had ever come up against. Someone who had even gotten rid of the Batman for a while. But because they hadn't terminated him, he was free. Because they'd once again used bad judgment, they were facing the consequences.

For reasons she couldn't fully understand, Bruce regularly checked up on Gotham, if only to find out how his new hero was doing with the city he had left. Bane's escape from the asylum hadn't bothered him because it had been so very expected after the mercenary was released from the hospital. But after the attacks that had started piling up, after the kidnapping of the doctor who had tried to rehabilitate him, Bruce had told her that something just wasn't sitting right with him, and continued to keep an eye and ear out for the home he had given up.

The injuries to his friend Lucius Fox had upset him greatly. Then it had only intensified after Jim Gordon had been shot. Bruce had thought maybe he should return to do something, help somehow. But she'd always talked him out of it because Gotham was now someone else's problem, as harsh as that may have sounded. But when he'd been told that Alfred was now hurt because of a man they had wronged, Selina hadn't had it in her to stop him from packing their things and flying out here to make sure that his family was taken care of.

In the good news department, Alfred was doing surprisingly well for someone who had been beaten at his age, and had warmed her heart when he'd told her that he very much approved of the woman his young man had chosen to marry.

Old guys and their words, she thought with a sigh. They got her every time.

She and Bruce would be leaving Gotham tomorrow, and both could now feel good about the decision because Alfred was healing in a way that was satisfactory for everyone. Bruce was there today to try and convince him to move out of the city. And because she didn't know him the way her husband did, she could only guess how Alfred would respond. But Bruce had needed to try, so she had gone shopping – legally – and let the two men have their time together.

Selina walked into her bedroom and removed her clothes. She chose a pair of baggy grey sweatpants and a violet sports bra from her wardrobe, pulled on the items so that she could make use of the fancy hotel's gym. She may have given up her life as an evasive thief, but because her husband still kept himself in shape she felt it only necessary that she keep her body strong too. Of course she couldn't let him pass her in that department. All insecurities aside, she still wanted to be seen as a challenge. She tied her brown hair back into a ponytail, slid her running shoes on as she did so, and headed for the door.

The great force of a hand seemed to come out of nowhere, knocking the wind right out of her and gripping her throat so hard she couldn't gasp for more. Pressure around her neck built and bruised, panic riding just below annoyance. She instinctively grasped at the wrist of the hand around her throat, and managed a glare for the intruder as she looked up at him.

All color drained from her face and her eyes widened in what she knew was pure fear. Her glare was nothing compared to the one she was being given, the angry face of a masked man who she should have killed long ago. She knew he'd survived. She knew he had lived through the blast of the cannon Bruce had given her the night she was supposed to escape. And still she felt like she was seeing a ghost. A ghost returning from the dead to break her.

Bane was supposed to have died on Gotham's day of reckoning. She should have checked for vitals.

Bane stared angrily at her, gripping her neck just a little harder for nothing except pure enjoyment. He wished he had a cannon right now. He wished he could line her up like a lovely target and open fire until she was nothing but a piece of charred meat, just as she had done to him. But he had other things in store for her. He would send this stray cat straight to hell. He gripped her neck with both hands now, not tight enough to break her spine, but certainly hard enough to injure and weaken her. He lifted her from the floor, feet dangling just a few precious inches from relief. But relief was now a feeling she would no longer have the pleasure of experiencing. Relief would become a dream.

He would enjoy every second of her suffering.

"Where have your claws gone, Ms. Kyle?" he asked her mockingly, bringing her face closer to his so she could feel the heat of rage within him. "You are so very small without the security of a great firearm. Now you are my pet." He glared into her fearful eyes, remembered his defeat, remembered the fire, the _pain_ he had returned to because of this woman. Because of her, he had been without his mask. Because of her, he had returned to the hell inside him. "And I have decided to put you down, _little kitten_."

Bane slammed his forehead into her face, felt her go limb and unconscious around his hands. He then dropped her body, satisfied with the loud _thump_ as she fell to the floor, and stared at what he would turn into a ruin. Just like he had been after she'd struck him down.

Zaid entered the hotel suite with the master key he had acquired from a very unfortunate maid, and was followed by just two of Bane's men who had dressed as normally as possible for lack of attention purposes. He walked up to Bane, decided to remain silent as his leader seethed down at the young woman on the floor, and awaited his orders.

Bane pointed to Selina. "Get her to the truck and drug her. I don't want her waking any time soon." He waited for his men to lift Selina up and carry her away before he turned to Zaid, his voice low and still angry. "Clean this place up."

Zaid nodded, knowing that was his cue to start with the security and remove all traces of them ever being here, and let out a deep breath after Bane calmly stomped away.

There was nothing in the entire world that would make him trade places with Selina Kyle.

* * *

Bane finally returned to the underground complex after the sky had darkened to black, and the stars glittered high above. Everything was arranged, everything was settled. Selina Kyle was being kept drugged and under watch so she couldn't try to use her crafty little ways to escape him, and run back to the living Batman. Bane knew that one day he would deal with Bruce Wayne again. But first, his pretty new wife would be taken care of. And there was no better way to punish the Batman than taking away the one he loved, no better way to make him suffer.

And he would suffer, Bane mused happily. Only then will he wish for _true_ death.

It was time to restore balance in that area, he thought. It was time to continue the work of the League of Shadows. And he would, Bane decided. He was the new Demon's Head, and he would make sure they succeeded this time.

And as he thought more of balance, unbalance suddenly entered his mind. And with unbalance came the face of his doctor.

Bane steadily paced his room, wondering what exactly she had done all day, wondering if she was even still here at all. Wondering if she had just left without… checking in with him first. Camille had to go for good this time. They both knew it, both understood that this day was coming as soon as she came back to him after the first time he'd let her go. She had to go because she didn't belong. He had to watch her leave for the second time because he couldn't keep her here. They had their own lives. It was time to get back to them.

No more therapy. No more fantasy. Only real life, without each other.

Bane stopped pacing and glanced around where her things used to be. All the _stuff_ that had been completely female, completely Camille. He instantly smelled her, and wondered how long it would be before that aroma left his air.

The sound of heels clicking along the floor had him looking towards the curtain. Camille walked on through, pulling her large suitcase behind her, the fabric bulging from all her packed things. She'd dressed herself in tight black pants and a burgundy long sleeved shirt, the neckline dipping low and her gold cross sparkling at her throat. Her long hair fell to her lower back, her face as clear of any makeup as she would allow, knowing she would have to look as beat and broken as she could when she returned to the world tonight. He was surprised to find even her lips bare, and realized he would miss that pouty, painted mouth. He shrugged off his jacket over his black shirt because the room suddenly felt too warm.

And then they stared at each other.

How would it be to go back to the world for good? Camille thought as she looked at him. Why did life suddenly seem like it would be so hard as soon as she walked out of this room? But that was just irrational thinking, she told herself. She had to go back because that was the world where she belonged. And soon, the pull she felt around him would fade. Soon, he would just be considered a failed case. And nothing more. Camille approached him, walked straight up to him until she was directly in front of him, glancing up at the face that had caused the city so much pain and fear. She could remember wanting so badly to rehabilitate him so that he could become a functioning member of society, even though he still would have spent the rest of his life in jail. But during her time with him, she knew Gotham's liberator to be as functioning as they came. She knew, for a very long time, that he had never belonged in Arkham Asylum.

Camille knew they couldn't stare at each other forever. Softly she spoke, because she had to get this departure going before the pressure in her chest immobilized her completely. "You never apologized for kidnapping me."

His brows rose in amusement. "I have already released you from my hold once before for your generosity, have I not?"

"Yes, but you never said the words."

Maybe she was teasing him now because she didn't know what else to say. And maybe he was going along with it because he was just as clueless. "I'm sorry you were so easily kidnapped."

She wondered if she should laugh, but the act suddenly seemed so wrong, just like everything else. But she had to push that back. She had to erase it from her mind. So she rolled her eyes at him, and tried not to think of the fluttering ache in her heart. "It's going to be hell with the police. They're going to keep me at Central for hours. Asking so many questions, running so many tests." She sighed, suddenly disliking the procedure of the system she worked for. "And I don't know what to tell them. I don't want to talk about you."

Bane glanced at all the different features of her face as she spoke, at the dark brows above the dark eyes, at the lips he knew the taste of. His eyes wandered down her body, landed on her pelvis he knew was so very sore from his strength. He knew what the police thought of him now when it came to her, what Gotham's new hero hated him for. He also knew that for his doctor to return to a normal life as quickly as possible, she would have to lie.

"They will assume things about me," he said to her. "Allow them to think it."

Camille sighed again and whispered, "But it's not true."

"They will throw you in your own place of work if you tell them the truth, Camille."

She frowned, and thought of the whole procedure for rape victims. The media and the police believed Bane had taken her by force. And because of last night when he had been so rough, they would definitely have the physical evidence. "Rape was never on your list of misconduct, remember? I told you that. But now it will be. All because of assumptions. And I—"

And I what? she asked herself. And I don't want that for you? And I don't like that you'll now be labeled that way because _I _was the one who came back and seduced _you_? Bane was right, she told herself. They would lock her in a cell and throw away the key if they knew that. She would have to go along with everything because that was how cruel the world had become. That was the world she had never liked. Camille decided to change the subject before she went off on an internal rampage.

"Wherever you're going… is the Nightwing going to follow you?"

Bane ran his eyes down her hair, found that he wanted to touch her black curls. But he kept his hands at his sides and refrained from the desire, just like earlier because he thought it was best. "If he does, then I will make sure he does not return."

She frowned again, and didn't even know why. Why was she feeling like this? Why did she want to go with him if only to make sure he would be okay? The thought was silly and twisted, just as everything had been between them. And she was suddenly at a loss for words.

"Stop pouting," Bane murmured.

Camille lifted her eyes back to his, felt another painful flutter in her chest. "I'm not pouting."

"You are."

She stared at him and remembered, from so long ago, when he had said the exact same thing to her the night he had kidnapped her. She looked at him, at the face that had given her so much grief, at the face that had helped redeem her and set her free from Jackson. At the face she would never forget. She didn't want to pout. So she smiled.

Bane felt something crack inside him as he watched that smile bloom across her face. He then discovered that he had never seen her truly smile like the way she was now. He had seen forced smirks, little false grins that had meant nothing to her. He had even seen the macabre lift of her lips when she had cut herself again. But to see her smile at him now, to see that half-grin that seemed so natural on her all of a sudden, was something else entirely. He drew his brows together as he looked at her smiling face, felt the pressure rise within him again.

_You are beautiful._

He found himself leaning down to her, tilting his head and bringing the tubes of his mask barely an inch away from her mouth. Camille smiled at him some more, knew what he wanted but waited as he softly brushed the tubes against her lips. She kissed the place on the mouthpiece where she knew his lips were under, the only way she _could_ kiss him. And because she suddenly needed to feel him, suddenly needed to feel that hard and solid body against hers for one last time, she stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck and shoulder as best as she could, and brought herself against him.

His body stiffened, his arms at his sides. He had tried to keep from touching her, tried to resist the urge because it was too much to handle and too confusing for him. But even as he wished for her never to have done this, he let her reach down to take his wrists, and wrap his arms around her waist.

"Hold me," she whispered, and did just that to him.

No one except for Talia had ever hugged him this way. No one except for Talia had ever been brave enough. The feeling was foreign, but her body was so warm. And because this would be the last time he saw her, he gripped her waist with his arms, and did what she asked of him.

She didn't want to say the word _goodbye_. Her chest was aching so bad that she felt like she didn't have the strength. But she would say goodbye to him in her own way. She would leave him now because she had to. She held him closer, felt her toes leave the floor as he lifted.

"Please be safe," she whispered to him, promised herself that he would be. "Dr. Lane's orders." She felt his mask move as he grinned underneath it, felt even more sorrow but ignored it because it would be the only thing to get her through this. This part of her life was over. "Don't forget about me."

She ran one hand down his chest to feel his heartbeat, almost flinched when she felt him take that hand into his own and softly graze his thumb over her knuckles. Why was something so easy and expected feeling so hard and unsure? Bane buried his face into her hair, tried to get the image of her smile out of his mind. He thought again how Camille was no longer his. He thought again how she once had been. She was free, and she was leaving.

"Take care of what once was mine, darling Camille," he murmured against her hair.

Camille closed her eyes as she squeezed him against her. She couldn't take being here any longer. It was best if she left and never gave him another glance. But before she moved away, she took the back of his neck and kissed his temple and his cheek repeatedly. She then stepped back, stared at their joined hands for a second longer.

_We're the same_.

Bane felt her fingers slip from his as she turned from him, watched her back as she walked off and out through the curtain with her giant suitcase. Back to the world she hated. Back to her life of loneliness. A part of him hoped he'd never see her again. He ignored the other part entirely because it was not reality.

It was time to resume his work. It was time to never look back.

He had a plane to catch.

**TBC**

**A/N: What does the hour of separation truly bring to us? When the time of departure comes, where exactly do you go? Thank you to all my precious reviewers. I love reading what you have to say. An interesting fact for you, Camille was actually very much different while I was planning Mercenary. I was going to make her and Bane have an extremely unhealthy relationship to play more along with his brutality, with Camille still feeling drawn to him even while she feared him more than anything else. The face of her nightmares, the ruler of her life. But as I got to know her more and write her, I found that she wasn't like that at all. Bane and Camille are drawn to each other because they know each other like they know themselves. That twisted attraction. That complete understanding. The same person within a different life. Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays, my darlings! **


	24. Two for Tragedy

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 24**

**Two for Tragedy**

"_Beneath the candle bed, two saddened angels, in heaven, in death. Now let us lie. Sad we lived, sad we die." - Nightwish _

She once told herself that crying was pointless for someone who would never be able to stop. Camille still believed it, still demanded from herself that she never give in to the act again, or at least try her very hardest not to. The feeling of tears was foreign on her face, and she didn't care much for it at all.

But she knew that she had disobeyed herself during her time with Bane. She had cried, simply broke down in front of him, the night he had moved her to the place she had eventually seen as home, the place she had allowed so many mistakes to happen. And she had cried the night Bane had hit her, the pain on her face and the terrible _hurt_ in her chest overpowering her need for control and allowing the salty tears to run down her bruised face. Both times in front of him. Both times, after years of holding it in, breaking down in front of the one person she'd never thought would see her tears.

_Crying was pointless for someone who would never be able to stop_.

Camille repeated the statement in her head over and over as she headed for the police station, hated that she had to keep telling herself something like that in the first place. She wasn't going to cry. She wasn't going to feel that foreign water on her cheeks again because of something like this. Leaving Bane. Her kidnapper.

But pressure still built behind her eyes as she walked on. Her chin would still quiver every now and then if she let her mind wander away from the simple task of returning to the world. Her throat would still constrict as she willed herself to get over this stupid feeling, and not cry. Please don't cry.

She wouldn't cry for him because she would not miss him. She wouldn't long for him because she felt nothing for him. She wouldn't remember his hands on her body because she did not want him anymore.

_Please don't cry._

She finally arrived at the police station. And Camille didn't know if she should be thankful for the distraction or simply terrified when the officers swarmed her like flies when she told them her name.

Two officers grabbed her arms, another furiously yelled into his communicator that they were on their way to the hospital with a priority one, and her things were taken from her as she was stuffed into the back of a cruiser, suddenly zipping through the streets of Gotham with red and blue lights flashing and the siren screaming. Camille tried to tell them that she didn't need to go to the hospital, that she was fine. But they ignored her, and shoved her through the automatic doors of the ER of Gotham General.

It was going to be a long night.

The officer in charge held up his badge and gave his brisk orders to the nursing staff, sending them all in a whirlwind when he gave them her name. Everyone seemed to know what had happened to poor Dr. Camille Lane. Bane's one and only captive after his escape from Arkham Asylum. Bane's unfortunate tortured toy.

"Someone get a kit and an examiner here in five minutes. I want her tested as soon as possible so we can start questioning."

Camille knew the procedure, knew what would happen to her as she let the assumptions of the city become the truth. For her own well-being, the truth of what had really happened would become nonexistent. She kept her mouth closed, never mentioned the word _consensual_ because both her and Bane understood that that was what needed to happen. And even though she knew the procedure, had to know it for her work, she was still a little shocked and uncomfortable when the whole thing finally began. Cops were yelling back and forth, nurses were running around like track stars, a doctor was found and pulled away from whatever other case he'd been working on to take the current one. Two nurses began peeling her clothes from her body. She opened her mouth to tell them to leave her alone, but instantly closed it when she spotted the detective standing outside the doorway of her hospital room watching her. Camille would be told later that it was for her own protection.

She knew it was really because they wanted to know more about Bane, and that they were just itching to pounce on her with questions about him and his whereabouts.

After she was stripped naked and covered with just a thin hospital sheet, her examiner entered the room. He was an older man with streaks of gray through his dark hair, lean shoulders and a withered face from dealing with the injured and hysterical for the last twenty years. He perched a pair of flimsy glasses upon his nose, introduced himself as Dr. Travis, and told her that her clothes would be given to him for inspection. Camille stared at him as she held the sheet against her chest, at the nurses hovering around her, at the officer watching her intently. She knew the procedure, she told herself.

It was something else entirely to actually live it.

Dr. Travis spoke calmly to her as the nurses moved her hair away by pulling it into a low ponytail behind her back, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes trying to give her the patience and understanding he thought she needed. "Camille, before we begin I need to get your medical history. The officer right outside is to ensure your immediate safety and security, and to obtain the basic information. All evidence we find and preserve will be given to the Gotham Police Department, which includes all forensic findings, and your clothes. If you need support, an advocate is available to you at this moment. Do you request an advocate, Camille?"

She didn't like this. She didn't like being naked in front of so many people whose hands wouldn't stop touching her, fussing over her, trying to gather _evidence_ for a crime that hadn't been committed. All she wanted to do was answer the police's stupid questions and go home, back to where she belonged because she didn't belong where she used to be. "I don't want an advocate. And I don't want to be examined. I have that right. I won't sign any consent."

"Unfortunately, Dr. Lane," the detective from the doorway interrupted, barging in and looking at her with his no-nonsense eyes, his hard set jaw, and his determination to gather more information on Gotham's liberator. "You _don't_ have that right. The GPD has a warrant to wave all consent forms. You have no choice but to participate in the examination."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's not true."

"I'm afraid it is. You've been through a severe trauma. And that trauma was caused by the criminal called Bane, who is top priority with us. You yourself are evidence against him. When it concerns him, all rights are thrown out the window." He stared at her for a few more moments, squinted a little. "If you were _not_ sexually assaulted, Dr. Lane, then you will _still_ be given this examination regardless. You know as well as I do that after the Harleen Quinzel fiasco, we have to take all necessary precautions when it comes to these matters. Were you sexually assaulted?"

Camille stared at him, and knew that he was the worst person Central could have appointed to an assumed rape case. She thought maybe she should plead with him not to let her do this, but knew at the same time that she had to, because there was no way out. She would have a lot of explaining to do once they found evidence of activity if she were to tell them that she had allowed everything that Bane had done to her. And because this city hated him so much, they would probably find some cause to throw her in a cage and never set her free again. She would just be another crazy psychiatrist that had done the wrong thing with the wrong man.

She would be just like Harleen Quinzel. And she didn't want to be.

Camille swallowed as she regrettably nodded, and did what Bane had told her to do. She allowed them to believe a lie.

"Alright," the doctor sighed, pulling on a pair of gloves. "I'll tell you now, Camille, that whatever questions I ask, you are court ordered to answer. I understand that you've suffered through a great ordeal and will try to make this as easy on you as I can, as fast as I can. Now, your medical history." A nurse went to his side with a clipboard, preparing to jot down her answers for their own files, and for the police. "When was your last menstrual cycle, and the last time you took contraception?"

Camille frowned and felt her stomach sink. She hugged the sheet harder against her chest, looked once again to the imposing detective, and felt very defeated. She wondered if he questioned anything, wondered if he could see right through her lie and straight to the truth. But Bane had told her to let them believe their assumptions. And because she felt so very defeated, she decided to resent these people, and allow them to mislead themselves. She told the doctor the dates, and that she'd had no need to take contraceptives for the last few years. Dr. Travis stood, walked to the side of her bed to begin what she knew was the brief physical examination. He pulled down her sheet to make note of any injuries or trauma, speaking to the nurse frantically writing as he moved his hands along her body, moved her hair and limbs in various directions to look at every inch. Camille looked away from him with a frown.

"Patient has tiny incisions along her chest and the back of her neck, possibly caused by the suspect's facial mask. No other sign of injury or physical body fluids." He sat in the stool at the foot of her hospital bed, scooted up further to her legs. Camille felt the nurses take her arms for what she supposed was kind support as the doctor lifted the sheet, and inspected her. "Trauma to the area. Evidence of very recent sexual activity, multiple times. Some tearing, and bruising here along the inner thigh." Camille watched him mull over something as he stared at her, as she tried to not feel so very uncomfortable. "We'll take swabs everywhere. I want a toxicology report as well. Doing okay, Camille?"

What a stupid question, she thought. A stupid question for a stupid lie. She yanked her arms out of the nurse's hands, sent the watchful detective a mild glare, and felt like cursing Bane for putting her in this situation.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

"Date of your last consensual intercourse?"

She sat up and grabbed the mattress as she felt him probing her, making her already sore flesh whine at her in discomfort, and tried her best to play the part of a victim. "Four years ago."

"Extreme tenderness here, here, and here. Have the lab go through her clothes, and I want her tested for any sexually transmitted diseases and pregnancy."

Camille's gaze snapped onto her examiner's. "Bane was my patient at the asylum. I know all his medical history. He's sterile for both."

"Bane was also tested when his immune system wasn't working properly," he told her, remembering the file he'd been given on the mercenary by the police concerning anything involving the rape of Camille Lane when he was told that he would examine her after they found her. "But now that he has his analgesics again, everything could have been put back into place. If the tests _are_ correct and up to date, we still check for pregnancy. Many a man who was told he would never have the option has gone on to conceive at least one child, in rare cases. I'm just making sure you won't be one of those rare cases."

Just as the doctor said, they swabbed her everywhere, collected them, and sent them off for forensic testing. They tested her for pregnancy and disease, each coming back negative like she knew they would. They took cotton applicators and rubbed them on the inside of her mouth, tested her for drugs and secured each piece of evidence. When they asked her about the scars along her forearms that she'd successfully hidden all of her life, she quietly told them that they'd been self-inflicted many years ago. And after what seemed like an eternity, she felt that they were just about done with her.

"Post-examination needs are important, as you know, Camille," the doctor told her, throwing his gloves in a hazardous materials bin. "Sexual assault victims are encouraged to seek counseling. Would you like recommendations?"

"No."

"I'll inform you now that even though you are a licensed psychiatrist, your own mental needs still have to be met. You can't possibly counsel yourself, and you'll only be prolonging your recovery if you think otherwise."

Camille had wrapped the sheet around her naked body like a cocoon, trying to keep as much of her skin as covered as she could. She hated going through this for nothing. Hated that she didn't exactly know what she should do concerning her so called _recovery_, or what she shouldn't do. But she knew that she wouldn't waste more of her life in pointless therapy, especially when it would be for a rape that had never happened. "I don't have a lot of say right now, but I do know that it's my decision whether or not to go to a therapist. And that decision is none of your business. Or yours," she called out to the detective in the doorway.

"Very well," the doctor sighed, sending her one last onceover before giving the nurses their orders for her care. Camille winced when she heard him tell them that she would be staying overnight for observation. "The police will take over from here, Camille. Usually we give victims a few hours to rest after examination, but the detective has told me that they will be interviewing you here and now. I'll step out so the nurses can help you change into a gown."

Camille absently nodded. She knew she was being rude. This man was only doing his job. But she was humiliated from all of this, and sad for reasons she couldn't explain. She didn't want to be here. She just wanted to be home.

But she would be lying to herself if she knew which home that was exactly.

Dr. Travis said his farewells and that he had personally looked over her forensic results before giving them to the police, if that gave her any peace of mind. He felt it didn't, so he quietly left her room. The nurses went to work to help her change, but Camille only pushed them away and dressed herself. The hospital gown was stark white and rough against her rubbed down skin, making her feel even more uncomfortable. She looked even paler and washed out with it on, her black hair standing out like a sore thumb against the brightness. She wished for some lipstick so she wouldn't look like such a corpse, remembered that looking like a corpse now was the whole point so she could protect Bane as much as she could, just as she'd promised him. And even if they found out where he'd been staying, Bane was long gone from Gotham. It was what he'd told her before she'd had to leave.

She wondered where he was.

Camille rested back on the pillows of her bed as the nurses left and the detective entered, pulling up a chair to the side of her bed and staring at her with those intimidating eyes full of purpose. His jaw was large, his hair the generic cop-style buzz cut, and his face serious and set. She regarded him coolly, and decided that she didn't like him very much.

"Camille, I'm Detective Beck. First of all, allow me to apologize for what's happened to you. The police department worked around the clock to bring you back home safely."

"The police department doesn't seem to care very much about my needs now, do they? I shouldn't have had to be examined if I didn't want to."

"Regardless of what you think about us," he continued, narrowing those eyes she didn't like just a little. "The Sexual Assault Forensic Exam was always going to be mandatory after we found you. It's over now, I have the results. And all you have to do is answer my questions and I'll leave you alone." He removed a tape recorder from his pocket, turned it on and babbled the usual intro. "The mercenary Bane escaped from Arkham Asylum on this date, and kidnapped you. Why?"

"I was his doctor. He trusted me and forced me to help him return to his previous health."

"Did he use any weapons against you during the kidnapping, or the assault?"

Bane himself had been enough of a weapon against her when he'd kidnapped her. Her chest felt tight when she heard talk of the imaginary assault, and when the face of head of security Ronnie Pierce came to her mind. But for the sake of his sick child, she decided to leave him out of it. "No."

"Bane was under your care while residing at Arkham Asylum. How was your relationship then?"

"It was civil. He did everything he was supposed to do. Bane never showed immature tendencies, or felt the need to act out like the other patients on his level."

"On what date did the crime take place, and how many times were you assaulted?"

Camille sighed and frowned. How was she going to get through this? It wasn't that she was sitting here lying to an officer of the law that was upsetting her. She didn't want to talk about any of that, didn't want to discuss her relationship with Bane after it had changed. She wanted to forget. She wanted to move on. These questions were only making it harder for her. But she answered, because she didn't know what else to do to make this man leave her alone. "I don't remember the date. He kept me secluded. I lost track of time completely. But the first time was a few weeks after I was kidnapped. The second time about five days ago, and numerous times after that. And the last time," she murmured, trying so hard not to remember. Trying so hard not wish for more. "The last time was early this morning."

Beck's brow rose just a tad. "Pretty blunt answers for someone who lost track of time."

She turned her head to meet his gaze. "And your attitude is pretty harsh towards a victim of rape."

"Just doing my job, Dr. Lane," he said coolly, keeping his eyes on hers. "We just want to know where he is. You were with him for weeks. You can help us get him back behind bars."

"I told you I was secluded. How the hell am I supposed to know where he brought me?"

"Sights, certain smells, sounds. Anything is valuable. Where did he keep you the whole time you were with him?"

"In a room. A dark room with nothing but a bed."

Beck rubbed his lips together, and knew that he didn't get to be such a good cop by sugarcoating things. He may have had some tendencies to beat the answers out of his interviewees, but they were answers nonetheless. "While you were treating him at the asylum, had you enticed him in any way?"

Camille's hands fisted and her breathing became shallow in annoyance. She couldn't stop the glare she was now sending the detective, couldn't stop the heat from rising to the surface. "Enticed him?"

"How did you dress? How did you talk to him? Did you laugh with him? Did you wear any makeup?"

Anger bubbled in her chest as she heard all his questions, as she was almost accused of actually being the cause of her own rape that had never happened. Is this what the city had come to? Is this how the Gotham police handled crimes now? And along with anger came disappointment that never seemed to fail her. Gotham was wrong, and always would be. "Do you let the victims do your work for you? Well, sorry, ma'am, but you kind of asked for it. Is that procedure for your department, Detective Beck?"

"Standard questions, Dr. Lane. And you don't appear to be very helpful for a woman who was sexually assaulted by her own patient, and Gotham's number one criminal."

"I can't help you if I have no help to give."

"Really? Because it seems to me that you're a very smart woman. It seems to me that you know more than what you're telling me. And you're not being helpful on purpose."

Camille sat up straight, wished she could tell him to go to hell but knew that he was allowed to stay right where he was because of the stupid court. She'd always known the world to be a dark place. Now she wished she didn't have to return to it. "You don't know me, Detective. And you can't possibly know what I went through while I was with him."

"Then why don't you tell me? Bane kidnaps you, rapes you, injures you, and you can give me nothing so I can go arrest him? I've gotten more help from women who were raped quickly in an alley. You were with Bane for _weeks_. You're not telling me something. Because otherwise you'd be helping me try to find him. You'd be helping your _city_ so they can be rid of him for good."

"I don't know where Bane is! And how on _earth_ could I possibly help this city?" She may have been shouting. She couldn't tell anymore. She knew she was being recorded, and didn't care. All she could feel was her anger. All she could feel was the tightness in her chest that hadn't gone away ever since she'd left the underground complex. "The Batman is _dead_, Detective Beck. And even while he was alive, he _still_ could not help us from people like Bane. They pop up every single day. And if the Batman couldn't save us, I sure can't. I won't, because we deserve it. I can't help you. Now hurry up and finish so you can leave."

Beck pursed his lips, nodded a little and decided that he didn't like her attitude very much. Maybe she had deserved to be raped, he thought with an inner sneer. Maybe she had yelled at Bane one too many times. "Your forensic testing confirms rough sexual activity. Did you try to fight him off?"

Camille held his gaze, knew that he wasn't liking her any more than she liked him, and found that she could care less. She held her glare, and answered him like it was a stupid question. "Bane is a one-man army, _with an army_. What the hell do you think?"

He ignored her. "Were you aware of his attacks on Dr. Jeremiah Arkham, Lucius Fox, Alfred Pennyworth, and a couple of our own, Lieutenant Jason Brooks and Commissioner James Gordon?"

"No."

"Alright," Beck muttered, wishing that she wasn't classified as a rape victim so he could have done some hardcore interviewing at Central, possibly resulting in throwing her in a cage for the night. Maybe next time, he thought with a grin. He couldn't stand a woman with an attitude. "Before each time he assaulted you, did you tell him no?"

Camille clenched her jaw and continued to lie as she gave a brisk nod.

"Please state it for the record, Dr. Lane."

She hated him. She hated everything. It killed her for some reason to keep answering these questions like this. But in her own way, she was protecting Bane with her false answers. If she was as little help as she could be, she could keep them from discovering where he'd been the whole time. "I told him no."

"Thank you. One last question and we'll be done here for the night." Beck gathered his papers on his lap, took the tape recorder into his hand. "You mentioned to Dr. Travis that the scars along your forearms were caused by self-mutilation. Is that the truth?"

Camille flinched away from him as he leaned forward more, closer to her and her space, those imposing eyes staring daggers at her and her unhelpfulness. He was now purposely trying to humiliate her even more. She tried not to become victim to it, but couldn't help but _feel_ the presence of those tiny flesh colored secrets along her skin. "Yes," she muttered.

Beck grinned again at her and stood, giving her a mocking wink. "Just checking," he said cheerfully, and turned off the recorder. "Have a good night, Dr. Lane."

The next day, another officer came to ask her more questions. She gave the same answers, with less hostility because she was so very tired from a long, uncomfortable sleep. She fell off her hospital bed once during the night, almost having a heart attack at the feeling because she didn't have a big enough bed to accommodate her restlessness, or a large body to prevent her from moving too much anymore. After the officer left and she was examined by the nurses one last time, they said she could leave if she thought herself well enough.

Camille didn't even answer them. She instantly signed the papers and walked on out of the hospital with her returned, and rummaged through, things.

She didn't want to talk anymore. She didn't want to have to face any more cops, or the pitying looks of the nurses and doctors. She just wanted to return to the home she'd been taken from, back to the apartment Bane had brought her to so long ago.

How could she be feeling so sad? How could she be feeling so lost? She had been lost before, not now. She could go back to her regular life, alone and in charge. Back to work, back to reading peacefully and without the complications of feelings and other stirrings. She didn't have to think of him anymore. She didn't have to wonder if Bane was safe or not, wherever he was. She just wanted to be alone, and stay alone. She was sick of people, sick of the city and all the many ways it would continue to be corrupt. She didn't want to wish, didn't want to remember him anymore.

She had been his rope to the sky. Now she just had to cut it, and walk away.

Camille walked up to her apartment, down the halls to her door covered in yellow crime scene tape. She stared at it for a while, hated that her once secluded life had suddenly become so very public. The whole point was to stay hidden, to stay invisible because she hadn't known how to live any other way. She was supposed to be free from responsibility of another life, free of the worry for another person. She tore down the tape, and unlocked her door with the key that had been returned to her by the police.

"Oh, Camille," a small voice chirped. She turned and saw that it was Mrs. Spinelli, who last believed that Bane was her new boyfriend the night he'd kidnapped her. "You've been gone. They told me something terrible happened to you."

"I'm fine, Mrs. Spinelli," Camille answered dryly, trying to keep her cool.

"They said that masked man kidnapped you. What a shame, I tell you. He was horrible. So very horrible. They should have left him rotting on the street, is what I say."

Camille found herself gripping the knob to her door, willed herself to remain calm and knew she was failing. Of course Gotham wanted him to rot. Just as they had allowed her rot in the hole that had been her childhood home.

She really hadn't wanted to talk to anyone.

"Camille, dear," Mrs. Spinelli murmured, glancing around along her floor. "Have you seen my—"

"For the last time, lady, I don't know where your _fucking_ newspaper is. Leave me the _hell_ alone!"

Camille slammed her door. No more talking, no more thinking. Back to life, back to work. Back to… nothing. She had been Bane's rope when he'd needed her.

She felt like she was the one who was falling.

* * *

The sun was so bright and the humidity was somewhere at eighty percent. It was winter, and the temperature was a usually comfortable number at seventy-five degrees. To anyone else the weather would have been ideal, a cool pleasant atmosphere away from the bitter cold and snow of the city for the end of the year.

Bane didn't care for the sun much, but trekked on along the sandy plains of southern India during an oddly tropical winter.

He remembered this weather well, remembered it more than anywhere else in the world. The days were bright and sunny, the nights cold and calm. During the monsoon season, the rains could last from June to September, the south receiving more rainfall than the north, and making it hard for a prisoner in the pit to live as comfortably as he could. The sky was clear now, lit up by the light in the sky, so blue that it hurt his eyes. He almost wished for the overcast, gloomy sky of Gotham City. But he had a goal now. And the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could find shade from the sun.

He was by himself, having told his men that he'd rather it that way and that they could scatter to accomplish other projects. His work was never done, and he utilized his army as efficiently as he could. There would always be people in the world that would need him and his men's talents, always people needing a bunch of capable men to do what they felt needed to be done. But for this, he wanted to be alone. For certain things he didn't need the help of others. He walked on along the sand, trying to keep his face away from the rays of the sun as best as he could, and hiked the ever familiar path. The path straight to Hell.

Wearing only his cargo pants, boots, braces and armored vest, Bane gripped the bindings wrapped around his wrist and palm, the other ends attached to the bound ankles and hands of his captive. Selina Kyle was still asleep from the drugs he'd given her during their flight to India, her brown hair trailing behind her as he dragged her along the sand on her back, pulling her by the bindings because she would have been too heavy after a while to carry the whole way. If he accidently walked over a couple of rocks, the light streaks of blood from her back and shoulders never fazed him. That alone was one of the reasons why he'd chosen to walk instead of drive. He wanted her to feel like an animal, wanted her to experience the agony of being bound and dragged like a piece of meat. Soon, she would wish to be with him again instead of where he would leave her. Soon, she would know what it was like to be left alone to rot.

Bane tried to ignore the heat of the sun as he continued on, looking back at his prisoner when he heard a very soft female moan. Selina was beginning to wake and stir, her lips forming a straight line of discomfort and her body flinching from the sudden brightness of the sky. He tightened his hold on her bindings, yanked her hard and fast along the rough, hot sand. He grinned when he heard her gasp, held it as he heard her whimper and try to right herself.

"What the f—"

"Good morning, Ms. Kyle," he called back to her cheerfully, relishing in her displeasure, anticipating to cause her more. "Don't worry, I will carry you the rest of the way shortly. It will be the least I can do after I bring you home."

Selina felt her chest heave, felt the panic rising and just about overflowing as she took in her surroundings and her situation. The last thing she remembered was seeing Bane in her hotel room, the angry glare of hate along his covered face as he stared at her, as he once again regained control over her. Now she was here, wherever _here_ was. But that didn't seem to matter at the moment. She was being dragged in a foreign place by the worst man she'd ever known, away from security, away from freedom. Away from Bruce, because how could he possibly know where she was? Her head felt dizzy, her limbs stiff and uncomfortable, and her whole backside burning and bleeding. She didn't know how many days Bane had kept her hostage, but she didn't think she'd been given any kind of food during that time. Her stomach hurt like her head, and her mouth was so very dry.

She willed herself to find some kind of strength. She may be disoriented and weak, but she would try her hardest to fight. She couldn't allow him to decide her fate for a second time. She couldn't allow him that control. Not again. Not like before.

_Why are you doing this? _would be a stupid question. She knew exactly why she was with Bane now. She was the one who had shot him. She was the one who had denied him victory.

And now she would die for it.

Selina coughed to see if she still had a voice, and tried to speak as loudly as she could. "What did you do to me?"

"It was necessary to keep you drugged for the last two days. I did not feel the need to waste energy on a wily cat."

She looked around again, closed her eyes against the puffs of sand so she could keep her vision. She was still only wearing sweatpants and a purple sports bra, the rocks continuing to cut her exposed back. "Where am I?"

She heard Bane laugh a little, felt thankful when he stopped dragging her. His body blocked the sun from her eyes as he loomed over her, staring down at her almost pityingly.

"Your husband once asked me the very same thing, in almost the very same situation. Would you like to know how I answered him?"

Selina only stared back up at him, swallowed a little to moisten her dry throat.

"Home," he told her, and smiled. "I am bringing you home. Mr. Wayne did not stay. But _you_ will. I will make sure of it this time."

She looked down at her dirty body, saw her ankles and wrists bound. She fisted her hands, and tried to think. But it was so very hard. The only thing she could think of, however, was the story Bruce had told her about what had happened after he'd fought Bane in the sewers so long ago. And then suddenly, she knew exactly where she was. Suddenly, she knew where Bane was bringing her. The pit of hell where Bruce had been left to die, and where Bane had lost his face.

"How…" she breathed, and tried her very hardest to grin up at him. "Predictable."

Selina moaned in discomfort when Bane suddenly grabbed her, and heaved her over his shoulder none too gently. She rested her cheek along his back as he held her legs down in front of him, and tried to gather her strength for when she would need it.

"Where are all your friends?" she asked him, taking shallow breaths because of his hard shoulder digging into her stomach. "You don't seem to travel far without them."

"To handle you, I need no one, Ms. Kyle. That is how it was before, was it not?"

"Yeah." She coughed, closed her eyes so her head could continue to clear. "But before, I didn't get a nice piggyback ride. Only a few shoves and a couple of threats. What changed in you?"

"If you continue to snip at me I will throw you back on the ground and drag you on your face."

Selina tried not to think back to the time when Bane had come to kill her, feeling the need to tie up the loose end that she had become after the whole John Daggett mess. She remembered the fear she'd felt as he'd stalked her, how pathetic she thought herself to be as she tried to bargain with him. Thinking of it now, she felt shame as she remembered how she'd traded in Bruce's life for her own, knowing now that she was the cause of his trip to hell in the first place. As Bane continued to carry her, she told herself that if, by some miraculous chance, she survived this, she would tell him how sorry she was for making that happen for him. But right now she couldn't think of Bruce. Right now she had to come up with a way to escape Bane and get back to him.

In the state she was in now, however, she wondered how that could be possible.

"Whatever happened to that chick you snatched a while ago?" she asked him, deciding to continue to conserve her strength for an opportune moment. "People won't shut up about her. They say you've been doing some pretty bad stuff."

Bane kept his eyes on the path ahead of him, trying to ignore the image of Camille in his mind. He'd successfully blocked her from his thoughts during his travel to India, willed himself to continue to do so because he didn't want to think of her, and what she may be doing, how she may be feeling. He ignored Selina, but of course, she continued to talk.

"You and I both know you're not one for rape," she said, remembering the times he would come to threaten her by himself, just as he was now. "So what the hell were you doing with her that whole time? How did she get to be the lucky gal?"

"You ask too many questions for your own good, little kitten."

She felt a thin line of blood trickle down her shoulder, and suddenly felt every single cut along her back. She was going to hell. Bane was going to send her there. And she was too weak to try and stop him. "Bruce will kill you when he finds out what you did to me."

Bane smiled at that. "Bruce Wayne could never take a life. We both know that. And when he _does_ find out what I did to you, he will suffer worse than from simple death. When _I _do away with _you_ this time, he will understand perfectly."

Selina drew her brows together. After the revolution, and after they'd left Gotham, Bruce had told her about who Miranda Tate had actually been, and of her connection to Bane. She realized then that shooting him with the cannon wasn't the only reason why _she _was here instead of Bruce. "Oh," she murmured, trying to ignore his shoulder now digging into her ribs. "That's what this is about. _Her._"

Bane shook her, causing her more discomfort. "_She_ is not coming back. And neither will you."

Selina grunted when she was tossed from his shoulder and onto the hot sand. She watched Bane lean over to grab a thick rope attached to a pulley, and suddenly became very aware of the faint sounds of wailing and crying from underneath. She lifted her head some, widened her eyes when she saw the great, dark hole. Bruce had told her that he'd let down a rope after his escape so that the other people could leave their prison. The cries from below told her that it was once again inhabited by the sad and suffering. Feeling like she had to do _something_ to get away, she used all of her strength to lift herself from the ground.

She would not go there. She would not go to hell.

She yelped when Bane snatched her by the hair, yanked her back to him by her scalp. He drug her to the edge of the pit, forced her by her hair to look down into the deep, dark depths of _Peña Dura_, and show her where he would leave her.

"A life for a life, Ms. Kyle," Bane said to her, taking the thick rope that he would tie around her waist to lower her down to whatever awaited her in the dark. "You have my permission to _rot_ in hell."

A boom suddenly erupted in the sky, and the wind picked up drastically. Both Bane and Selina looked towards the great sound above them, and watched as a plane flew as close to the ground as it could without being completely unsafe. The plane flew over them, blocking out the sun and impairing his vision for a moment. He squinted as the sun blinded him, widened his eyes as he saw what was now descending closer to him. Two dark figures seemed to float through the air, one in the midst of a summersault.

The other in the dark shape of a bat.

Bane held onto Selina in an iron grip as the two men dropped to the sand underneath his feet. The one he knew as the Nightwing stood first, that ever cocky grin upon his young face. But Bane paid him no mind, focusing rather on the black armored shape of an assumed dead man, the cape that had allowed him to make a safe landing flapping in the simmering wind from his aircraft.

The bat was back, if only to retrieve his lady.

"So," Bane muttered, holding Selina's face away so she couldn't smile at her husband, so she couldn't see her light. "The gallant Batman has returned for his cat."

"Did you think I wouldn't be able to find her?"

Bane's brows rose as the familiar deep rasp of the Dark Knight brought back memories, memories of pain. Memories of a _break_. "And you brought your successor," he continued, ignoring his question and looking towards the new young hero.

The Nightwing smirked. "Ready for round two, old man."

Bane stared at both of them as he held onto Selina. It could have been amusing. It could have been sweet that Bruce Wayne had found his friend to help him bring home his wife from the man who had beat them both, and who had stolen her away. It could have been many things.

Right now, it was nothing but infuriating.

"You will die _for real_ this time, Mr. Wayne." Bane squeezed Selina's hair, and tossed her to the ground roughly.

Two against one, and he didn't care. The hero's charged him, and he prepared to break them both.

Bane ducked underneath a swing from the Batman, grabbed the Nightwing's ankle as it headed for his face, and pushed him away. He spun around quickly to catch the Batman's fist, took the other in the hip, and sent him reeling back from a furious head-butt. Bane then lunged for the younger man, no longer having the patience for games with him, and sent his hard fists flying into each side of his face.

"You will go first," Bane growled at him, sending his knuckles relentlessly into the boy, wanting to beat that smirking face into a bloody pulp.

He was suddenly pushed back, and the younger man used every ounce of speed inside him to kick his leg straight up, right underneath Bane's chin. A surge of electricity shocked through him, coming from the boy's boot as he kicked at him again. The Nightwing spun and sent his heel for the side of his head, causing him to stumble back some. Bane looked back at him, glared, and lunged for him again.

He sensed the dark figure heading straight for him, had just enough time to grab the boy by his head and spin quickly to ram him right into the charging Batman. Bane sent his fists wherever he could land them, taking a few himself and using all of his speed to block what he could from the two men taking him on again. The Batman still fought with a style that almost matched his own, the pure moves of the League of Shadows something no man could forget. Bane could guess most of them, had no choice but to take a hit every now and then when dealing with his other opponent, and remembered well all the training that had gone into both of them. Taking caution not to slip on the sand as he battled two men at once, Bane growled at them and continued on.

The Nightwing fought differently from both Bane and Bruce. He evaded gracefully, sent his strength into Bane only when he thought necessary, and used his electric armor as much to his advantage as he could. The boy hopped from one foot to the next as he kicked at Bane, shocks of electricity burning into him with every thrust of his boot. He knew he had to destroy them, knew that the body could only take so much shock before he would start to weaken because of them. Bane quickly dipped his body to jab forcefully into the Batman's thigh, kicking at his knee to send him down and then grabbing the boot of the young hero before it could once again collide with his stomach.

John Blake tried to yank his leg free, but found himself unsuccessful as Bane's grip tightened on his armor. "Hands off the kicks, pal."

Bane squeezed on the armor, heard a few satisfying cracks, saw a few sparks as he broke them, and twisted hard on the hero's leg before sending him flying forward and away from him. Pressure suddenly erupted on his face as the Batman came at him with hard fists and a newfound strength, causing Bane to take a few steps back and unable to find time to block him. His hand shot forward to send the heel of his palm into the Batman's nose, then grabbed his neck so he could do it again, and again. With a frustrated grunt, Bane shoved Bruce back, making the sand billow up like a cloud and the sounds of the crying men below in the pit wail even louder.

He took a deep breath as he watched the two men lift themselves to their feet, fisted his hands at his sides to take them on again until someone ended up dead.

Bane's knee suddenly gave out from underneath him, and a force knocking him to the side some. He looked behind him, almost smiled from what he saw.

Selina Kyle was now unbound, on her feet dressed only in her sports bra and sweatpants, and raising her fists to do away with him as well.

Three against one now. How the tables had turned.

He would not allow them to beat him.

The men were on their feet, all three taking a separate corner around him, ready for battle, ready for victory. But he had not come all this way to lose. He had not left the city to head for his own destruction.

_Don't die_.

Camille's voice came to his mind, and he hated that it did in the present situation. She was gone, he had left. She'd told him that, and he knew he needed to do what she wanted.

_I won't. _

He wouldn't.

Bane snarled as all three bodies came at him, hitting him, kicking him, scratching at him and sending him stumbling. Selina was easy to get rid of with a rough push or a hit to her chest. The men were more difficult, each having their own strength, each having their own style to bring him down. But he couldn't lose, Bane told himself as he fought on, sweat slicking his skin and the sun burning him. Someone was going to hell. Someone was going to the pit.

A surge of energy and strength burst inside him, his mask hissing loudly as he grabbed at the men, hitting them with every ounce of strength he possessed, every hard grip bruising them, every slam of his boot making them stumble. He kicked the Batman in the chest, grabbed the Nightwing by the face with the hard force of his hand, and squeezed. Selina was coming at him now, and with both hands, he used the Nightwing's head against her as he slammed the boy's skull right into her cheek. Bane then reeled his fist back, sent it straight underneath the Nightwing's chin, and had the boy flying back with a painful groan. He spun a second later to block the Batman, grabbed Bruce by his shoulders and slammed his face into his knee repeatedly, over and over again until he pushed him back, and he stayed on the ground.

Then he looked behind him and saw Selina.

He had come here to leave her in the pit. He remembered the loud blast of the cannon, and knew that his efforts would not be wasted.

Bane stomped closer to her, reached down and grabbed her neck and lifted. She moaned softly, but was cut short by his intense grip, and found him walking with her hanging in the air. His skin was dirty from fighting in the sand, his breath harsh and angry, his eyes furious and out for her blood. His grip tightened and cut off her lungs, his fingers pressed and bruised her skin.

"I did not come here for _nothing_," he snarled at her, wished he could kill her here and now but knew that she would suffer worse in the pit. Just as he'd suffered. The place where he had died. "I will toss you in and hear your skeleton shatter as you face hell, Cat _Whore_."

"Fuck you," Selina muttered as she used her hands to peel back his fingers around her throat just enough so that she could talk, finding the strength so that she could breathe. "The only one going back to hell is _you_."

The Batman reached into his belt, tossed a small, sharp black dart.

Selina lifted her hand to catch it. She gripped it like a dagger.

And quickly stabbed it against Bane's mask.

She landed on her feet once he dropped her, gripped the dart in her palm again and jabbed it into his side, satisfied with the end of the small bat-shaped weapon sticking out from between the mercenary's ribs, thick red blood already sliding down his armored vest.

Bane growled in frustration as he went to reach for the Catwoman again, but instead found the Nightwing in front of him, once again using his fancy feet against him, his broken boots slamming into his chest one right after the other.

And that was when so many things happened all at once.

Selina grabbed the rope Bane was going to use to send her to the pit. Blake kicked at the dart in Bane's side, causing his mask to hiss violently and distracting him enough to get the rope around his waist with the speed and agility he was quickly being known for. The Batman pulled out his grappling gun, shot a hook into the rope and another around the old, decaying pulley.

Bane was shoved almost in every direction as the force of his opponents inched him back, none of them individually having the strength to knock him down, but each quick enough so that he could not untie himself. Selina clawed at his neck, the Nightwing kicked at his chest, the Batman punched at his mask. Bane kept stumbling back from their blows as his head reeled and his side bled, finally being spun around when Bruce socked him in the tubes of his mask.

Bane's breath hitched in his throat as he stared down directly into the dark, down into the pit. The cries of the men below exploded in his ears, their chanting bringing him back and making him remember how it was down there, down there in hell. His eyes widened as he had a brief moment of panic staring down into the darkness, not wanting to go back. He couldn't go back. Death would be kinder. Anything would be better than to return home, back to his darkest hour. Back to prison with no way out again.

He caught himself before his slight panic could cause him to fall, shook his head to get rid of it so that he could do all he could not to go back. There was a dart in his side, and a rope around his waist. He needed to fight harder, and kill these people because they did not deserve to live. Bane turned around so that he could get away from the edge as quickly as possible, so that he could untie himself.

All three pairs of eyes stared back at him.

Individually they did not have the strength to bring him down.

The Batman, the Catwoman, and the Nightwing all rushed him, and pushed him back.

And then Bane was falling.

Camille had once told him that hell was home. She had told him to be safe after she'd left him. But now hell was inching closer. Now the cries of the suffering were louder. The rope caught him with the sickening sound of it tightening, lowering him back to the dark, back to the days of loneliness, the nights full of terrible hope.

_What happened to us? _Camille had asked him, asked him because neither of them quite knew.

_How did we get here? _

Hell was home. Bane was back in the pit with no way out. No lift to freedom.

No rope to the sky.

**TBC**

**A/N: This story isn't over yet, my loves. But I do have this thing… This…sequel sort of thing. Any takers? **


	25. Sleepwalkers Dream

_**Mercenary**_

**Chapter 25**

**Sleepwalkers Dream**

"_A tear is only water. A sigh is only air. Whenever you feel haunted, the truth lies out there." – Delain_

"_Do you ever remember feeling happy? And I don't mean feeling content or satisfied at times. True happiness," she murmured to him. "Have you ever felt truly happy?" _

_He contemplated her question, thought of the face that had instantly come to his mind. So sweet, so innocent. He pushed it back, and away. "I thought I did once. But now… it feels different. Now I am not so sure." _

_Camille ran her hands down his back, felt the steady flow of his breath through the mask against her chest as he rested there, calming down from emotions. Making her heart ache on the inside because it had once again chosen so poorly. But conversation was better than thinking about it. Conversation could help push it back because it couldn't be wanted, couldn't be taken in. "Even if you're not sure anymore, you still seem like you are. On the outside." _

_Bane kept his eyes closed and smiled softly as he rested on her chest, holding her down with his weight, covering her with his body because he needed the extra warmth. "Really? I've never heard that before." _

"_You have this… odd cheerfulness about you, at times. Almost like real happiness. Even while knowing what people know about you, even while seeing your scars or the mask. Sometimes… you sound happy." _

_Her fingertips slowly ran up his spine. "I think I should ask if this is a compliment." _

"_It is," she said quietly, staring up at the ceiling and trying to breathe properly as she continued to hold him against her, away from his demons, away from the one who had tried to smother him with her hold on his heart. "Even if you're not happy you can still present yourself that way. You can still pretend. And most of us can't." Her lower half was beginning to throb softly from his strength and she was sure his weight was crushing her. But still she held on. Still she wanted him with her because she needed the anchor. _

"_Happiness is an illusion," he murmured, echoing her words from long ago. _

"_And life is unbalanced," Camille whispered back. _

_She thought of the way he had looked earlier, so lost, so heartbroken after coming to terms with what Talia had really been to him. He seemed better now. He seemed calm and tired after the raw emotions had sucked him dry and left. And went straight into her, because now she was confused. Now she was wishing for something she could never have, could never be allowed to have. Now, she was wondering what had happened to her after she had saved him from himself, and a ghost. Camille held her arms around him, felt the heat from his body that could only chase away the chill running through hers. _

"_You don't have to pretend anymore," she murmured to him, trying to distract herself, trying not to feel the ache in her chest. "Now you can be happy." _

_Bane kept his eyes closed, tried not to feed too much into her words. He didn't want her to talk this way to him. He just wanted her to go to sleep. But still he asked, "Do you want me to be?" _

_Knowing the answer, her heart lurched in her chest. She told herself it was something else, because she didn't know what else to think. "Yes." _

_He wasn't sure if he liked that answer. It felt too foreign. "You should redirect those wants for yourself." _

_She closed her eyes, waited until he was falling asleep and slipping his hand into her hair before she softly whispered back. "I might not be as good at pretending as you." _

Camille stared off into nothing as she thought back to her last night with Bane, the night he had severed Talia al Ghul's grip from his heart, the moment right before he had fallen asleep and she had held him all through the night. Her lungs screamed at her for breath so she took one, taking in the clammy air of the heated air conditioner of the office she had no desire to be in.

"Did you hear me, Camille? Are you alright?"

She looked over to the older woman sitting in the chair opposite her, the therapist Detective Beck had forced her to go to for treatment after getting a court order because he was_ concerned for her well-being_. Camille had refused to get counseling after her assumed rape, and Beck had known that, had known she didn't want it and still pulled his strings to continue to make her miserable. The detective hadn't liked her because of her attitude and unhelpfulness when it came to the re-capture of Bane, and got back at her with ways such as further questioning, and forced therapy. Now Camille had to appear at this lady's office a couple times a week because she was labeled as a rape victim, and after two weeks since leaving her kidnapper, she still absolutely hated it. Dr. Sylvia was boring, soft spoken, and only dressed in nauseating pastel skirt suits.

And was a complete waste of Camille's time.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, glancing over at the clock so she knew how soon she could leave.

"Were you thinking about the nights he came to you?"

Camille felt the intense need to roll her eyes. She hated having to lie like this, be seen like this. Ever since she'd returned – or in the media's way of explaining it, released – everyone in the city seemed to know what had happened to her. Reporters camped outside her apartment to question her about her time with Bane, what he'd been like, how severe was her trauma. Her face had been in the papers, her neighbors looked at her with pity when they would pass each other in the halls. She still wasn't allowed to go back to work, and everyone that came across her or discussed her within ear shot always said the same thing.

_You see that girl over there? What a poor, sad little thing. _

After only two weeks, her life had been turned upside down, and everyone knew who she was. And thanks to Detective Beck and his unwanted therapy, she was more miserable than ever.

"It helps to talk about it, you know," Dr. Sylvia said with her mousy voice, her wrinkly skin washed out from the sea foam green suit. "You can talk to me. But let us continue the exercise, shall we? Four feelings you were familiar with during your time with Bane. They can be basic, they can be additional. But give me four."

She was a criminal psychiatrist in therapy for a rape that had never happened, sex that she had allowed and had even initiated. Camille stared at the woman, and wondered if she thought she was dumb or just too upset to participate in therapy in a helpful way. This is what her mistakes had come to. This is what the people of Gotham and their assumptions caused. She cursed Beck in her head for the thousandth time, and wished she were somewhere else.

"Camille, please don't make me call the detective. We all want you to recover. But you're not doing your part."

"I shouldn't have to be here."

"So you've said each and every session in two weeks," Dr. Sylvia sighed. "But you are. You can leave right after you answer me. Four feelings during your time with Bane."

_Content, accepting, aggressive, lustful._

She gave the answers that were expected because she couldn't tell them the truth. "Sad, angry, exhausted, hurt."

"See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?"

"I'm going home." Camille stood, reached for her purse and her jacket and headed for the exit of the terrible little office room.

"I'm going to have you tested for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder for our next session," Dr. Sylvia chirped with a smile. "Detective Beck thought it would be a good idea, and I agree."

Camille stopped in the doorway, let the words sink in. When they did, her constant anger rose a little more. She was tempted to tell the truth, scream what had really happened to all the cops that questioned her, all the reporters that hounded her, and all the other citizens that pitied her. She wasn't a victim, she had only done what she wanted to do. She wasn't scarred from her time with her kidnapper, she was only sad being back in the world. She didn't want therapy, she didn't want check-ups. She didn't want to be kept from work because she wasn't yet cleared for it.

_They will throw you in your own place of work if you tell them the truth, Camille._

Bane's words came to her mind, and made her continue to keep quiet, continue to lie.

She shook her head, not wanting to hear him because she was tired of thinking about him. Two weeks without him had seemed so very different, and she hated that she felt that way. So she listened to him one last time, and decided that she needed a distraction.

She left the office without any more words to Dr. Sylvia, and went back out into the cold.

* * *

Another week passed, and Camille found her distraction.

This new life was very strange to her. After a lifetime of staying in the shadows, of hiding away from friends, social events, and her own family, it was very different indeed for everyone to suddenly take an interest in her. A few author's had approached her to write a book about her story, she was invited to parties and other functions thrown by the rich and wealthy of Gotham, and a few cops in the department stopped by every now and then to check on her. Detective Beck kept tabs on her, called her with more questions he knew irritated her, and always asked her casually how therapy was going. Dr. Sylvia tried to prescribe her pills, told her that she would write her another prescription for more Lexapro if that was what she wanted. So many people calling her, so many people wanting to talk.

Why couldn't she be left alone? Why couldn't she go back and pretend nothing had ever happened? Why did she lie in bed at night and automatically reach for someone who would never be there?

Camille hated this new life. She hated suddenly being thrust into society in a way that had never been available to her before Bane had entered her life. She was now seen as the woman who had been kidnapped and raped by Gotham's terrible liberator, the woman who had no family and no friends.

_You see that girl over there? What a poor, sad little thing. _

She ignored everyone, brushed everyone off as best as she could. She called the asylum every single day to see if she could return to work, and every time they told her they didn't think she was quite yet ready to talk to more of Gotham's criminals. She thought about begging, but decided that it would only prolong her absence. But simply sitting at home in her apartment wasn't working for her. Sitting around and thinking about what used to be because she had no distraction was only making things worse. And one night, when she saw the little red light on her answering machine blinking, that had been the breaking point for her.

It was just two little words by a quiet male voice. Two little words that had forced her to go out and find that distraction. Head of Security Ronnie Pierce had called her, and almost made her hate him for making her remember again.

_I'm sorry._

If it hadn't been for him she would never have been kidnapped in the first place. If it hadn't been for his betrayal because he'd been reduced to a desperate father, she wouldn't be going through all of this now. She wouldn't have been with Bane for so long. She wouldn't have gotten to know him more, wouldn't have allowed him to know her either. She wouldn't know how the lips underneath the mask had tasted, wouldn't know the feeling of his hard and insistent hands on her body. She wouldn't wish for him at night. She wouldn't be wondering if he was okay.

She needed to replace Bane, and forget him completely. Because she couldn't keep living like this.

Her distraction came in the form of a man, a sweet young man who worked at the asylum with her. His name was Richard Nealy and he worked in accounting, a smart man who handled all the bills for Arkham Asylum. He had a kind face and a lean build, wavy blonde hair and a very soft southern accent he couldn't quite get rid of from his childhood in Alabama. He'd called her up the evening after she'd left Dr. Sylvia's office to check on her, since they had always exchanged friendly hellos during work, and had somehow stopped her from simply hanging up on him like all the rest who asked her the very same thing. But as he talked over the phone, telling her that he would be glad once she came back to work, Camille had decided that he was perfect and could be the one to help her forget. Now, a week later, they'd already been on two dates.

Camille forced herself to believe that it was a good thing how Richard was the complete opposite of the last man she'd been with. Richard was sweet, friendly, and constantly had something to smile about. Always a gentleman because that was how his mother had raised him, he opened all her doors for her, pushed in her chair when they'd gone out to dinner, and told her how beautiful she looked when she would throw on a simple dark dress and heels. He always slipped on her jacket for her, always paid for the meals and the cabs, always kindly introduced her to people he would recognize when they would be out. Camille then realized that this was the first time she was actually dating someone who wasn't her ex-husband Jackson.

But it wasn't enough. She still wasn't forgetting, and she was certain that there was only one way that she could.

Decorated in a flowing red dress because they had just returned from dinner, Camille pushed Richard against the door of her apartment and kissed him, pulled him close and covered his mouth with her red one because she guessed that was what she needed to do. Richard responded like she knew he would, sinking into her at first with a gentle grasp at her waist, and then gently pulling away so he could stare at her with those kind country blue eyes of his.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Camille? I mean… I don't want to rush you. I don't want to do something wrong and accidently make you remember."

He was only here so that she wouldn't remember, she told herself, and decided to give him the patience that had evaded her for weeks. "It's okay, I'm fine. I want this. Please just touch me."

Richard stared at her face as he thought about it, not wanting her to be uncomfortable after everything she'd been through. But after he'd called her last week, after he'd heard how sad she'd sounded, he wanted nothing more than to help her heal, and to treat her as kindly as he could. So he took her face into his hands, brushed back a few stray black curls, and kissed her again.

He was so soft, gently kissing her mouth and caressing her face, savoring her lips with those feather light pecks of his. At first she remained still because he really was being so sweet, trying to be so very gentle because he too believed the lie that was slowly destroying her. Camille let him kiss her that way, gazed off into the distance.

The last lips that had kissed her had been so very different.

Camille blocked the memory, grabbed the back of Richard's neck and opened his mouth with her own, feasted on him deeply as she unlocked her apartment door and pushed him inside. He made a light sound in his throat as she grabbed at him, yanked him close to her and shrugged off his jacket. He wasn't quite sure what was going on with her, but he let her do what she wanted because maybe this was how she normally was when it came to intimacy. He let her guide him back to the white leather loveseat, dropped down onto it and stared at her as she instantly straddled his lap, her dress hiking up to her thighs and hugging against the curves of her body. She brushed her annoyingly long curly hair back, and insistently began unbuttoning his dress shirt so she could feel more of his skin.

She didn't want to remember. She didn't want to long for someone else. She only wanted to think of Richard, kind sweet Richard who was so nice to her, so gentle and so thoughtful. Softly he touched her, quietly he sighed. He smiled at her, calmly took her wrists and pried them away from him so that he could run his hands down her hair reassuringly. He moved her like a doll off of him, gently lowered her on the couch so he could smile down at her once again.

She stared up at him as his fingertips softly trailed down her face and onto her neck. What was going on? she thought to herself. Why wasn't he getting the point? Where was the urgency to get her out of her clothes? Where were the deep sounds of his pleasure? How come he wasn't pawing at her like she had done to him? He should be lifting the skirt of her dress and ripping away her panties. He should be grabbing at her neck instead of softly caressing her. He should be pulling at her hair instead of compassionately brushing it back from her face.

She wanted that, not this. She wanted rough, not sweet. Richard began kissing her face, those soft pecks that were only intensifying the ache in her chest that had never left her in three weeks.

"Richard…" she muttered, and reached up to run her nails down his chest. She felt him suck in a deep breath when she firmly placed her hand on the front of his pants, and squeezed. And just when she thought he would change and be the way she needed him to be with her, she grew confused when he took her wrist and moved her hand away.

"Camille, honey," he said softly with that hint of southern drawl, giving her those understanding blue eyes. "You don't have to be that way with me. Just let me take care of you." He leaned down to kiss her cheek, brush his knuckles over her chin. "You're safe with me, I promise. Just relax. Let me make love to you." He tenderly began kissing the pale skin of her neck, running his hands down the back of her dress that was somehow still on her body. Automatically, she lifted her face up so he could have more of her skin, and stared off into the distance.

Her chest was killing her, suffocating her with intense pressure. Her heart felt like it would explode in her chest, burst into a bunch of fat bloody pieces and leave her dead. Why was Richard's gentleness making her feel nauseous? Why was the feeling of his lips constantly somewhere on her skin making her feel so very uncomfortable? He said he wanted to make love to her. Why was that simple statement making her feel hatred towards him?

Why wasn't he bigger? Why couldn't she close her eyes and imagine the soft sound of hissing, the hard muscles of another body overpowering her and driving her insane? Why wasn't he giving her that painful pleasure she couldn't seem to live without? Why wasn't he…

Camille stared into his eyes as Richard gently took her face and began kissing her lips. The pressure in her chest was becoming too much, the wanting in her body being left completely unsatisfied. How could he be acting this way? How could she be feeling so terribly… wrong?

Anger boiled inside of her as he continued to kiss her, heat simmered on her skin and left her in a confusing rage. She drew her brows together, stayed put in her anger until she simply could not take it any longer.

"_What the_ _hell_ are you doing?" she asked him crossly.

Richard pulled right away to look down at her, his own confusion evident in his eyes. Those eyes she didn't know. "Kissing you. Am I going too fast? I can go slower."

Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, her hands softly shaking in disappointment. Everything about this was wrong. Everything he'd been doing was so unsatisfying she couldn't take it a second longer. Her breath came out shaky, and suddenly she didn't know what to do with herself.

_What is happening to me? _

"Oh, Camille," Richard murmured gently, and giving her that look that everyone else was always giving her. That look of pity, that look of false understanding. That look that told her they thought of her only as that unfortunate girl who had been raped by the masked man everyone hated.

_What a poor, sad little thing._

"Get out."

Richard frowned, and that sweet-tempered face grew even more confused. "What?"

"Get_ off of me_," she hissed, and placed her hands on his lean chest and shoved. She glared at him as he flew back from the same strength she had used the night she had hit Jackson, and watched as he scrambled to his feet.

"Camille—"

She quickly rose from the couch, stalked him closer when he wasn't moving to the door fast enough for her. "Get the _fuck_ out of my house. Right now!"

Richard held up his hands in surrender, and zipped like a mouse to grab his jacket and scurry out of the door. Camille continued to glare after him as she slammed her door with a loud _bang_, looked down at her red dress that hadn't been put in any kind of disorder because Richard had been so disgustingly _sweet_. Her heart heaved in her chest, her breath began to spasm, her hands began to shake. Was she really so messed up that she now couldn't enjoy a nice, quiet evening with a nice, quiet man? Was the deep longing inside her completely destroying her because she had tried so hard to forget?

Why couldn't she function properly? Why couldn't she have a normal relationship with someone? _Why wouldn't Bane go away?_

Camille rushed into her bedroom, dug deep in her closet until she found the old black duffel bag that she had stuffed with her things the night Bane had kidnapped her, and the night he had set her free the first time. She reached inside, frantically searching for the item she needed to see because she couldn't bear it any longer. Her fingers finally found it and curled, pulling out from the depths of her bag the very withered and very dead black rose that Bane had given her so long ago.

It crinkled in her hand as she set it on her palm, the dark, almost gray-like petals completely shrunken and deceased. One fell off and floated to the floor, but still she held it. Still she stared at it and remembered everything she had been through.

Life was so very hard now, harder than when she'd been alone and simply divorced. And almost even harder than when she'd been in the hole with her mother and ungrateful family. She was lost, and she hated it. She was pitied by the city, and she loathed it. She was kept from her work, and she desperately needed that distraction because the distraction of another man had only made things worse for her. Her chest had not stopped aching ever since the night she had held Bane, ever since she had left him. Now, she couldn't seem to do anything without being reminded of him.

Camille couldn't bear to think of Bane, but she couldn't stand to make herself forget. She couldn't bear to want him, but she couldn't stand to let him go. She was disintegrating into a million and a half tiny little shards, cracking and shattering because she terribly missed someone she would never see again, someone she could never have.

She was ruined. How could he ruin her like this?

Camille held the dead rose against her chest and left her apartment, walking out into the freezing air of Gotham so she could feel something other than the pressure in her heart. The skirt of her red dress billowed underneath the wind and made her shiver, made her thankful for the sting of the cold.

"Was that a man I saw rush out of here?"

Camille jumped at the unfamiliar voice and looked all around, finally glancing up when that voice whistled at her. At first he looked like nothing but a shadow against the outside wall of her apartment complex. The body walked a little further into the faint yellow light of a street lamp, and Camille saw him standing upon the fire-escape.

So this was the heroic Nightwing that had tried so hard to find her. This was the young successor of the dead Batman that Bane had promised to kill if he were to follow him. And as Camille stared up at him, as she gazed upon his dark armor and wispy shoulder length hair, she remembered how the news had reported him gone for so long after she had left Bane.

"_Wherever you're going… is the Nightwing going to follow you?" _

"_If he does, then I will make sure he does not return." _

But the hero had followed him. And now he was here. She didn't want to think about what that meant.

"Did you have a date tonight? He seemed like a nice guy."

And because she didn't know what else to do, Camille allowed him to talk to her like they were good friends instead of complete strangers. "He is."

"Did you kick him out or something?"

Her red dress and hair was flapping all around her in the biting wind. She wondered if that armor kept him warm. "He's not the guy for me," she muttered.

"I see." The Nightwing hopped upon the railing of the fire-escape, hung his legs over contently as he sat using his expert balance. "You don't need to compare Bane to anyone, you know. It's healthy for you to start dating again. Rid him from your system and all that."

Camille clutched the rose in her hand, felt it disintegrating and crumbling in her grasp.

"I tried to find you," he continued, linking his fingers together and glancing down at her in the cold. "I could have saved you from what happened, kept him from touching you again. But he wouldn't give you up. He said that you wouldn't leave him."

So, she thought, ignoring the cold stinging her skin. Bane and this new hero had already met a long time ago. Maybe he had been the first one to believe that she had been raped. Maybe he had been the one to start this whole mess she was in now. She continued to ignore him, continued to stay in the cold because she didn't want to go back inside just yet.

"You don't have to worry about him anymore, Camille. He can't hurt you."

Camille felt her heart sink down to her stomach and her chin start to quiver. She looked back up at him slowly, hated that he was being so nice and protective over her. His words cut her like a knife, and suddenly she knew why he was still alive. Suddenly she knew why Bane had not done away with him like he'd said he would.

"Is he dead?" she whispered.

The Nightwing slowly shook his head. "Not dead, but locked away. Back to the beginning. And he won't get out this time. I promise you." He looked at her dress, at her pale skin slightly shivering in the wind. He hated that she looked so sad, hated that he had not saved her in time. "You should go back inside. It's too cold out here."

Camille looked at him for a few moments more, at the man who would never be fully accepted by the people here because no one could truly save them. He fought so hard for people who would tarnish his name the very next day, for people like her who lied about what they had really been to the enemies of the city. He was here now because Bane had failed. He was here, and Bane was not. Calmly, she turned around and went back into her apartment, back to the place where she would continue to be alone and sad.

"_Where are you going?"_ she had asked Bane on their last morning together, the last time she had felt his body on hers.

"_Somewhere you cannot follow."_

She hadn't liked that answer, had questioned him even though she knew he would be annoyed by it.

"_We cannot escape our pasts,"_ he'd told her. _"Mine is hell on earth."_

Hell on earth. Back to the beginning. Camille fell onto her bed as the pressure continued to hurt her chest, continued to make her ache. She held the crumbled mess of a flower against her, felt the tiny withered bits of it litter onto her blankets. Bane was locked away.

And she was ruined.

* * *

Six weeks after the night she had returned to the world, and Camille was just now starting to feel somewhat normal again. Six weeks after leaving Bane, and she was finally able to go back to work. She thought she had actually shed a tear when she'd received the call from her superior, the confirmation that she was allowed back to continue treatment for the inmates at Arkham Asylum. Now she could go back to the way she'd lived before Bane had become her patient. Now she could consume herself in her job because staying at home and thinking about him was tearing a hole right through her chest.

Finally seeing Dr. Arkham again had been a little awkward. If Camille thought she hadn't been his favorite employee before, she was now possibly his very least favorite member on the entire staff. She knew he somehow blamed her for his lost eye, since he figured it was pointless to blame the criminal who had actually destroyed his sight. Now he had to look at himself in the mirror every morning with a glass replacement. Camille had thought when she'd first seen him that he had received the very best treatment and substitution money could buy. But everyone could still tell. And she knew Jeremiah hated that most of all.

She'd been welcomed back just as they'd always welcomed each other back when something would go wrong. With the cops still checking in on her every now and then, Jeremiah knew that it would be bad form to fire her simply because he'd decided to play the blame game. He half expected Camille to question him about what Bane had done to him. But when she ignored the hearty _glad-to-have-you-backs_ of all the others, when she politely brushed off his own forced and complete sham of a welcome, she had immediately asked him for a case.

"I'd like to request a certain patient, Dr. Arkham."

Now here she was, six weeks after she'd had to face a terrible examination and questioning, sitting back in her old session room with the patient she had wanted, the patient she had ultimately been granted. Dressed in her old work clothes of a black skirt suit and chunky pumps, Camille rubbed her plum colored lips together and gazed at the file of the person sitting across from her.

The night Bane had kidnapped her, Camille could remember the sight of the beautiful woman with the very long red hair blowing her a kiss from her cell as he'd dragged her away with a silencing hand. She had first arrived shortly after Bane had been admitted, and Camille had briefly heard that the woman would possibly never receive psychiatric care because of her history, because of her crimes. But for whatever reason, she had been granted that kind of treatment. And as soon as Camille found that out, she had immediately snagged her as her own.

After quickly reading through the file once the case had been given to her, Camille had learned that this woman had been working as a stripper at a club called Rose Red in Old Town. As strip clubs went in that part of Gotham, Rose Red had been the cleanest, served the very best drinks, and had the very prettiest girls. But with all those accomplishments came the constant investigations by the police. Rose Red was where all the big bad boys of Gotham would meet, discuss, and plan. For months the police had been trying to close them down. And during those months, more and more cops gave up the fight, and were suddenly becoming frequent customers. This woman was here now because she had a slew of dead men behind her, all important men who had visited the club often for dirty business, all men who had somehow wronged her in one way or another.

She had horribly poisoned each and every one.

"Happy to be back from your special leave of absence, love?"

At the sound of her patient's husky silken voice, Camille stopped reading the file and glanced up at her.

She was terribly beautiful, Camille noticed once again. Slick, sleek, and lovely. Deep green eyes, full of playful amusement now, that shone like jewels against her creamy skin. Seductive features, close to elegant, with a hint of steel in her wide-mouthed smile. She was curvy, petite, and perfectly groomed for an inmate of an insane asylum, her standard gray scrubs somehow hugging her body and skimming a great pair of pale legs. Her hair was the color of flames and cascaded down her back in a fashion that required perfect confidence and good bones.

Terribly beautiful, Camille thought again, for a stripper who loved to poison the wretched men of Gotham.

Camille brushed her black curls back and turned on the tape recorder. "What I'm happy about is that you're sitting in front of me now. Anyway, Ms. Is—"

"Oh please, enough with formalities. Enough with terrible _given_ names."

She'd told her patient that she was happy. Camille tried so very hard to be. "Would you rather I called you by your stage name?"

She smirked. "It does have a lovely ring to it, doesn't it?"

"It fits too," Camille commented, and wondered how the session room suddenly seemed so very different now that she was talking to someone else after so long. "Considering that you've fatally poisoned close to fifty men."

The woman simply lifted a shoulder. "All terrible men who deserved it. You couldn't understand how many filthy men walk the streets with their fancy heads held up high just because they are who they are. Or… maybe you do."

Camille held her gaze, felt nothing from her words because she suddenly realized how _used_ to it she was when dealing with people like her. "And that is of no thanks to you."

The woman gave her a knowing smirk. "So shoot me, darling. You really think I was going to stop _Bane _from leaving with what he wanted? Your story is very interesting, by the way. How _on earth_ did you manage to escape him?"

Camille shook her head at her patient, more for her own memories than procedure. Bane was out of her life now, and she couldn't help him anymore. "My story shouldn't concern you."

"Oh, how wrong you are," the woman answered softly, folding her delicate arms on the table and gazing at her with those lovely emerald eyes. "I was there the night he took you. I saw the whole thing. And now that you are _my_ doctor, it concerns me a great deal."

"And if you'd like me to continue being your doctor, I'd suggest you answer my questions. What kind of life did you have outside of the strip club Rose Red?"

"Ooh, what a temper, I see. Bane must have had his hands full with you." The woman smiled, stared hard at her doctor. "What kind of an answer would make you happy, Dr. Lane? Would you like to hear about the poor, abused girl at home? Or maybe the girl who was wronged by the love of her life? Or my personal favorite, daddy issues." She sat back in her chair, rubbed her red hair casually. "At the end of the day, love, it doesn't really matter. We all do what we do, kill who we kill. We make our choices based on our _needs_ instead of our circumstances. Take that guard who used to work here. What a terrible shame that was, wouldn't you agree?"

Camille frowned, and remembered Ronnie Pierce. Before she had returned to work, his son had not been able to survive his cancer, even after taking money from Bane so that he could afford all the necessary medical bills. The son he had aided in a kidnapping for had died. And Ronnie Pierce had stuck a pistol in his mouth.

The woman continued. "That man killed himself because he needed his dead son. I poisoned those _rats_ because I needed to see them suffer. Our circumstances don't matter. Dysfunction is dysfunction. And the thing about dysfunction is that sometimes it doesn't always show itself in raised voices and fists. Sometimes, it can be insidiously polite."

Camille felt her mind begin to wander, something that would never have happened before. She thought about her family, and the dysfunction there. All notes from her mother had stopped ever since the man from the Italian mob had been caught and killed. She didn't know if Bane had scared them into leaving her alone, or if her mother had once again lost complete interest in her daughter. But she'd been thankful that she hadn't had to deal with anything else involving her. She thought of Jackson, and how he had completely separated himself from her life now. And then she thought of Bane.

She had a new patient, and yet it was so very strange to talk with someone who wasn't him in this room. She was finally being left alone by the hounding people of Gotham, and yet she still wondered about the man who had been the cause of those annoyances. The ache in her chest had never left, the sorrow in her heart constantly simmering underneath her skin. She told herself it was for different reasons, and yet she would always see his face. She told herself that she didn't need him, and yet she still felt so very lost.

The woman watched her doctor closely from across the table. How sweet it was to witness such heartache. "You're here to discuss my problems," she murmured, leaning forward again so that she could continue to study. "But your own seem to have taken over your life completely."

Camille looked at her patient, at this very dangerous woman, and wondered how she couldn't be on the top of her game. She'd been given the patient she'd wanted. She'd been given the work to distract her. And yet she couldn't seem to do the job she normally would, couldn't seem to stop wishing for someone else to sit in front of her again. She knew it was wrong, and she knew she should stop her. But Camille sat still as the woman lifted her finger to place it against her lips in a shushing manner, and slowly reach down to press the off button of the tape recorder.

It was against procedure. It was against the rules. Everything they discussed _had_ to be recorded. And Camille found that she didn't care.

"Bane didn't rape you, did he."

It wasn't a question, so it didn't need an answer. Camille was sick of the lies, sick of the labels. And to hear the truth now from this woman felt oddly gratifying. She couldn't do it anymore. So she never corrected her. "How did you know?"

"You shouldn't shortchange me, love. I know the raped when I see them. Let's just call it experience." The corner of her red mouth lifted beautifully. "And you were attracted to him. It was written all over your pretty face the night you were spying on him in his cell so long ago. He watched you too, although a little bit more inconspicuously."

Camille eyed her. "You seem to witness a lot that goes on around here."

She shrugged delicately. "I call them as I see them. So I'm guessing the desires of the flesh won during your time with him."

She didn't want to talk about this, but she couldn't seem to stop the conversation. She didn't want to remember, but forgetting was near impossible. And God, did her chest hurt. Camille lifted a hand, pressed it between her breasts to uselessly try and ease the pressure.

"And you miss him," the woman murmured with a soft grin, eyeing her doctor's sorrow, almost finding amusement in the struggle of two lovers. "But I suppose that's what happens when you belong to someone. How foolish it is to allow a person that kind of hold over you."

Camille frowned. There was no hold. There couldn't be a hold. Not again. Not like before. "I don't belong to him. He let me go."

"Well…" The woman scoffed and smiled. "If you don't belong _to_ him, then you most definitely belong _with_ him. Look at you," she began, and reached over to flick away one of Camille's long black curls from her face. "Look how sad you are without him. I can already tell that you don't belong here, like this. Here, now, you're seen as nothing but the poor girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And that is all you'll ever be. Unless you give in to your needs, just like the rest of us, and go back to where you _could _belong. Because that is where you _need_ to be."

Camille stared at her, took in all her words because they suddenly made more sense than anything else in the last six weeks. She'd been miserable all her life, enough to cut herself, enough to rely on medication. But during her time away from the world, she had done so much. Jackson had been removed from her heart, her pills no longer mattered, and finally she had found satisfaction when it had come to her physical needs. Finally she had met someone who had understood her, someone she could relate to because they were the very same. Then, she had left him. Now, she was miserable all over again. Bane had ruined her, and now she didn't know what to do with herself.

But Camille knew what she needed. And it wasn't to keep going on like this.

_Enough suffering. One day we won't feel it anymore. _

Camille rose, and suddenly felt as if the asylum were her own prison. She couldn't be here anymore. She couldn't sink into another hole. Her rope to the sky had left her. Now she needed him back. Without bothering with the confidential files or her dangerous patient, she walked straight to the exit of the session room and scanned her palm to open it.

"One more thing before you leave, Dr. Lane."

Camille stopped, turned to look at her patient one last time, found that she didn't care if she escaped or if she simply went back to her dark, humid cell.

"When you see Bane," the woman began knowingly, her red lips smirking, her emerald eyes glittering. "Give him a _kiss_ for me, darling."

* * *

_The government told us to be normal. After you, they just wanted us to be normal. _

Camille had said that to Bane the night she lay on the floor, bleeding and crying from the cut she had given herself to relieve her sadness, watching him as he bandaged her and made her well. But nothing was normal anymore. Nothing could be normal ever again for her. This city, this _life_, meant nothing without him. With him, she hadn't been alone. Without him, she was completely lost. She had spent her whole life in the dark.

The light would never have either of them. So she would just have to continue to live in the dark with him.

Camille briskly walked past questioning eyes as she steadily made her way to the main exit of Arkham Asylum, her black pumps clicking loudly on the tile floor. Someone called her name, someone pointed and asked if she was okay. But she didn't care about any of them. All they could see was the raped woman, the poor broken soul who would never be the same ever again. And she could no longer bear to see their pitying faces.

"Dr. Lane?"

She knew that voice, knew it belonged to someone who had never liked her from the beginning. She ignored it. She just wanted to leave. Leave this prison, leave this hell.

"Camille!"

The voice boomed angrily, and caused her to halt instinctively. With her hands fisted at her sides, Camille turned around with the other eyes of the staff watching her, and faced Dr. Arkham. He held a few papers in his hand, stomping toward her with that condescending stare he'd always given her since her very first day working for him, the glass replacement in his eye socket shining and evident to see.

"Where the hellare you going? Your shift isn't over yet and I need to speak with you."

Her nails dug into the skin of her palms. "Of course you need to speak with me, Dr. Arkham. You _always_ need to speak with me. But unfortunately I can't talk right now. And I'm leaving."

His waxed brows rose to his forehead in shock, in anger that he'd always had for her because she had always gotten underneath his skin. "You can't leave. You just got back. You work for _me_, Camille. You can't make your own hours."

"I quit," she muttered, and hated the sudden silence in the foyer of the asylum. Hated all the eyes watching her, and the man who had never liked her.

"What did you just say?"

"I said I _quit_!"

Jeremiah sucked in a loud breath, crumbled the papers he'd wanted to speak with her about in annoyance. She was making his job here easier, but this wasn't how it was supposed to go. "It's funny you say that now, Camille. It's funny that you decide to leave us just as I was about to come to you with all of this."

Camille scoffed at the papers he waved at her. "I don't know what that is."

"Oh really? It tells me the truth, Camille. The truth about who you really are outside of these doors." He had imagined the day he could fire her. Her attitude was something he'd never been able to stand. No one was supposed to treat him the way she always had. Everyone was supposed to _listen_ to him. And this woman had always been snotty. He would make her pay now for taking away his chance to terminate her. He would embarrass her in front of his staff because she deserved it, because it had been her fault that Bane had escaped and ruined his face. "When exactly did you start cutting yourself, Camille? And why did you decide to hide all your deformities from us?"

Camille glared at him, ignored the soft gasps of the others watching them. The small scars along her forearms started to itch, started to remind her. And that alone made her even angrier. "My past is none of your _damn _business."

"What the hell kind of a therapist were you? You were hired here to help the inmates with their mental afflictions, and the whole time you were just as screwed up as they were."

Her temper was rising. She could feel it, and she couldn't make it simmer down. "I was a good psychiatrist."

"Were you now?" Jeremiah stomped closer to her, ignored the gasps of the others as he suddenly snagged Camille's arm and lifted her sleeve. "Are those the signs of a good psychiatrist? Because they look like nothing more than the signs of a petty girl on the brink of _suicide_ to me."

She tried to yank her arm free, but he wouldn't let go. He tried to show her terrible past to everyone around them, but she didn't care. All that mattered was that he was blocking her from leaving, and that was unacceptable. Rage boiled like fire inside her, left her feeling the heat, left her seeing red. Her body tensed, her fists tightened, and the fire spread. "Let go of me," she warned through clenched teeth.

"You can't quit, Camille. I've waited too long to _fire_ you."

Someone took one hesitant step forward when Camille suddenly snatched the lapel of Jeremiah's suit jacket with her other hand. She yanked him close, appreciated his surprise, and glared at him with all the frustration she had bottled up inside her.

"Touch me again, and you'll lose the other eye," she murmured to him, and shoved, sending Jeremiah to the floor on his back with the strength of her anger, with the fury of her fire. She lifted one dark brow looking down at him, and never realized how good it could feel to put her former boss in his place. On the floor with the rest of the filth. "I apologize that you didn't get the chance to fire me, little _bitch_."

Camille turned on her heel and headed right out of the door, leaving Jeremiah Arkham huffing and puffing once again, leaving the hell that had become her miserable life. The cold air of the night bit at her skin, the wind picking up against the black curls of her hair. She stood in front of Arkham Asylum, looked out to the city skyline, and saw it as nothing more than a giant monster whose terrible appetite devoured anything in its path. Gotham ate its people, the people who trampled one another for fame, for riches, for power. Women were used up and tossed to the ground, children were stolen each and every day, and men would kill each other for something as simple as a dirty deal.

She looked over to the messy congestion, the area that suddenly lit up from police lights and shouting sirens, and watched black smoke rise in the sky, the evidence that this city would tear itself apart. A chill ran up her spine as the smoke shaped itself, the unmistakable sign of someone waking from his quiet slumber, the dirty little secret that everyone had tried to hide away. The smoke swirled and hovered above the city.

Hovered above complete chaos as it slowly took the form of a smiley face.

She had always known Gotham City's true colors. But now she knew what it was like to live within it as part of the slum. And maybe that was the only way you could live here, she mused, watching the buildings glitter, the screams of the city echoing down its streets as it raced towards the anarchy. Maybe that was the only way you could endure it.

Camille could remember the sorrow she felt when she'd first been kidnapped by Bane, feeling lost and helpless. Feeling empty and lonely. Understanding that no one in the world was going to save her because she hadn't mattered enough to those who were supposed to love her. But in the end, it had been the simple act of being abducted in the first place that had rescued her. Ultimately, being taken by Bane had been what saved her.

He destroyed her, emotionally outdid her. Overwhelming and unsettling. She'd come to crave each separate sensation he could bring her, to crave the feel of him against her the way she did air or water. Without thinking of it.

And unable to survive without it.

**TBC**

**A/N: My own special Nolan take on one of our favorite villains, without making her identity completely obvious. I can't believe it, but the epilogue of **_**Mercenary**_** is next. I can't tell you all how much your support of my work has meant to me, simply can't put into words how happy you've made me feel. I thank you from the very bottom of my heart, and hope that this story has been satisfactory for everyone. Your continuing support has inspired me to create that sequel for all of my reviewers, and I hope you love it just as much. There will be more action, more secrets uncovered, more steamy romance, and a chaotic fight for control over Gotham. The sequel will be called **_**Amaranthine**_**, and will be here soon for all of you to read, to review, and to love. Thank you again, my precious darlings, and know that I couldn't have done it without you. **


	26. Ghost Love Score

_**Mercenary**_

**Epilogue**

**Ghost Love Score**

"_My fall will be for you. My love will be in you. If you be the one to cut me, I'll bleed forever." – Nightwish_

They say it's hard to light a candle, easier to curse the dark instead. They say light travels faster than anything else, but what they don't tell you is that darkness was there first and is waiting so very patiently.

And it never leaves.

The sun burned all day long, suffocating, smothering, so very hot and bright. And yet, even with the scorching rays of that great sun, the darkness within the pit destroyed it each and every time. No amount of light could tear the dark apart, no amount of hope could cure crippling despair. The wails of men would not rejoice from the sun, but cower away from the light because the dark was all they knew, all they could know. The dark was home, and home was hell.

_Peña Dura_ had barely changed. Bane had heard rumors of a man who had escaped the pit long ago, tossing down a rope that would give the others that faraway reality of freedom. Of course Bruce Wayne would do something like that, he'd thought at the time. Of course he would be the savior for the abyss of pitiful men. But some men had been too old or injured to make the climb. Some men had regrettably had to stay behind when the first rush of the frantic had severed the rope, and left the others to rot. But even if Bruce Wayne's rope had not given freedom to all the men imprisoned within the dark hole, his presence there had most certainly left inspiration.

A few more men had successfully escaped, finding the strength and the courage to make the jump, and feel the light upon their face. Some had returned to rescue certain others, and some had tried letting down another rope for the rest. It had worked for a while.

Until the lords of the land got smart. Until they decided to take away the prisoner's one chance at freedom completely.

The rope was taken away. The ledges were destroyed. And more men were tossed in without ever having to feel that terrible hope.

The pit had barely changed. And Bane felt he was losing his sanity.

On the outskirts of Gotham shortly after he'd left, Bane's men had been ambushed by the police during a deal that had been dirty. No one was able to come for him because they were frantically trying to keep their own freedom. Many were arrested and locked up, others were hiding within the masses, and a few had been killed by the badge. It was terribly hard to escape to another country for your leader when the present country was out for your head. And the police definitely wanted all of the mercenaries head's on a platter. To make executive decisions was something his men had always done well. And how were they supposed to know the truth? How could they have known what had happened?

Six weeks in the pit felt like another lifetime gone to waste. There was never enough food, barely enough water. The other prisoners left him alone, his size and the mask his shield against another attack he found himself always bracing for because this place was just one enormous bad memory. But Bane could live through all of that. Bane could endure those kinds of trivialities.

What he couldn't endure was feeling like the man he'd been before the League of Shadows had come for him.

Trapped here now against his will, Bane found himself looking around for the little girl who had stolen his life. Remembering how things used to be, Bane would feel for the small body along his cot at night that would never be there. And only when he righted himself, only when he would stare at his reflection and see the evidence of different times along his face, would he fear the grip of insanity.

This was not the past, he would tell himself when he would search for water. Talia had not been a little girl for a very long time. Talia was dead.

He was a different man now. It was the only anchor he could give himself. He was stronger now, smarter, more powerful than any of the other prisoners. He had no little girl to take care of. He had no sudden injuries to suffer from. He endured each day like he had before Talia had come into his life. He had survived and he would survive again. The pit would not destroy him for a second time. Bane would take his own life before he allowed that to happen. But after the first couple of weeks trapped within his hell, Bane had wondered if that very act was in his near future when he began feeling the consuming choke of his medicine running low.

When Selina Kyle had used the piercing dart as a dagger, she had stabbed his mask. Bane had been thankful to discover that it hadn't received any excessive damage. It had been more annoying to stitch up the small incision on his side where she had jabbed the tiny knife between his ribs. But even if the Catwoman had been unsuccessful in damaging his mask, the simple fact that it was running low on medicine steadily became more concerning. He had nothing with him. He had no drugs, no doctor. Bane felt at one point that he really would die here again.

Until he searched within the deep pockets of his armored vest, and discovered that Camille had left him with two full canisters.

After he'd found them, he could only stare at them. After he'd popped them into the back of his mask, breathing in the new medicine that would last him a little bit longer here in hell, he could only remember.

_Don't forget about me_.

Camille hadn't wanted him to forget. But how could he forget, now that her odd maternal action towards him was the only thing keeping him alive? How could he forget his time with her, when the very air he constantly breathed was laced with the drugs she'd made for him? When he needed a grip to reality, Bane would think of her. When he needed to remind himself, Bane would imagine her face, her voice, the very way about her that had made her the woman she was. Talia had been that anchor for him after he'd lifted her to freedom. But Talia could never be anything more to him now other than his past.

He could not sink back into the claws of her ghost.

And now, six weeks later, still trapped, still tortured, Bane wondered how much longer he had before his medicine ran low again, wondered how long it would be until the soft hiss of the gas would stop within his mask. Then his pain would take him. Then, he would submit to it completely. It had been six weeks.

Another wasted lifetime.

Bane sat on the floor of his cell, tried to ignore the sting in his side from the infected wound he'd stitched together with filthy tools, dirty string from the cot because it was all he had. He hunched over in his armored vest, looked off into the distance as he ran calculations inside his head. A few more days, he decided, agreeing with those calculations. Just a few more days until his mask would have nothing to sustain him with. After that, he didn't know how long he'd last. He had lived without his analgesics for over a year when the people of Gotham had allowed him to live after the revolution, believing that suffering within the system was more torturous than simple termination. But his body had been put in a flux after he returned the drugs to his insides. Now, he didn't think he could last very long without them.

At this point, he knew what the future held for him. It was only the timing that was questionable.

Bane took a deep breath, closed his eyes against the sharp burn from the cut along his ribs that the mask couldn't hold back as a few of the other prisoners started to shout in their many foreign languages, most of which he knew but couldn't find the interest to translate. There was more yelling around him, more rushing within the cells and outside in the light. And after a while, his curiosity piqued. Looking over his shoulder at the shouting men, Bane listened to what they were saying. Their words made him lift a brow. Slowly, he stood and entered the rush.

Most of them gathered in the middle of the pit, pointing up to the light and speaking to those who knew their language. If it had been just another prisoner being lowered into hell, it wouldn't have gathered this much attention. If it had just been more of the officers of the land, or the lords they worked for, many of them would have stayed in their cells. Bane listened to them as he made his way into the thick of the crowd, most of the smaller men moving away and trying to keep from touching him in fear that the masked loner might lash out, something he had done before and would do again if he felt the need to. Bane looked up into the light, the distance straining his eyes, the sun causing him to squint against the rays that had burned his skin. And when the light began to soften, when his eyes began to adjust, the reason for the rush within the pit was visible to see.

A body stood at the edge of the pit, looking down from so far away at the broken forms of forgotten men. Bane narrowed his eyes, felt the odd flutters of familiarity. Something twisted inside his chest, something cracked and spread. Something lifted inside him when he realized that he knew that curly black hair, that shape, that body. The one who was always leaving him, and the one who was always coming back. He was in hell, and there she was. He knew her.

His rope to the sky.

Camille stared down into the dark mouth of the pit that seemed to vomit the cries of men, passed the broken walls, passed the gloomy cells, passed the other prisoner's weary faces. And way down deep, a lone figure stood in the middle of the suffering, staring back up at her with that face she knew so well. Everything else blurred, save for the eyes that had drawn her since the very beginning, the eyes that wouldn't leave her alone because she was ruined for everyone else. The sun bit at her back, heating the black tank top she wore, but she couldn't look away just yet. She had to know that he was alright. She had to see him alive.

And there he was, she thought with relief. So far away, but closer than before.

And for a moment, one simple moment as she stared down into a world she'd never known but had left everything else for, she wondered what exactly she was doing.

The comforts of the life she'd once had meant nothing anymore. Because of her decisions to come here, she could never go back, never return to where she had used to be. She was giving up her calm, secluded life for the life of the dangerous, for the life in the slums. For a man who had done nothing but kill and destroy and conquer. Bane was death himself, the personification of all pain. Death would come to her sooner rather than later if she returned to him. With him, she had seen death. With him, she had been thrust into a world she could never have imagined.

But to be with him was to finally be _alive_.

And knowing that, accepting that, Camille looked up to the sky and closed her eyes.

When had the sun become so blinding?

Shuddering, she looked back into the pit, met his eyes again. And felt alive once more.

Camille reached into the pack at her feet, the large bag that a few of the locals had tossed to the ground for her after she'd given them all the money she had left for a ride from the airport. After much research and asking around, she had finally been given the location of the prison during her travel from North America. It could have been extremely dangerous, but a few desperate and hungry men had taken her to where she needed to go in exchange for the rest of her savings, leaving her and her many things she'd brought with her and driving away. Pushing more supplies off to the side inside the pack, she lifted and pulled, held her prize up for him to see from so very far away down in the depths of _Peña Dura_.

Bane lifted a hand to shield more of the sun from his eyes so he could see what she was showing him.

A little stunned, he smiled underneath his metal mask. And as the familiar chants of the other men began to sound throughout the pit, he lowered his hand to the mouthpiece and blew her a gentlemanly kiss.

The ache in her chest continued to pulsate, continued to annoy her as she heaved her prize into the dark mouth. The chants became louder, happier, almost relieving as the long, hard rope fell at his feet with a _thud_. No one made a grab for it. No one was foolish enough to take from him what would lead him to freedom. Bane grabbed the rope, made sure it was secure, and began his climb out of hell.

How ironic it was, Bane thought as the sun felt hotter with every foot he climbed. How ironic it was that the woman he had loved more than life had climbed away from him to the light in this very spot, climbed to freedom as he was beaten and scarred for her. And now this woman, this aggressive little woman who had begun as such an annoyance, such a _pain_, was the one to set him free. Talia had left him to die, and she had once been so very important. Camille had once again returned even after he had made her leave him. So what did that make her? What was Camille now?

Camille was his, because they were the same.

_His rope to the sky_.

Bane felt the stitch in his side break and begin to bleed, but still he climbed on. He gripped the rope within his large, calloused hands and made his way to the light that would never have him. Once he made it to the top, he reached for Camille's outstretched hand, allowed her to help pull him out of the hell that would not get a second chance to destroy him. The chants rang in his ears, the sand billowed around him, the pain in his side stung at his ribs.

And he was free.

In the blinding light, at the edge of hell, Bane and Camille stared at each other, keeping away for just a few moments more. Weeks had passed and it felt like years. He raked his eyes along her body, took in her shorts and her shirt, her familiar painted red mouth. He stared at her hair, and the soft red hue it gave off in the light. He stared into her eyes, the eyes that became the color of whiskey in the sun. He had never seen her in the sun before. She seemed to light up, seemed to glitter before his eyes. She had once told him that she would never have asked him to die for her the way he had for his last woman. She would have never left him to rot.

And she hadn't.

After so much effort, so much time and so much money, Camille finally had him back. He was a mess right now, but here he was. Every time she thought of him, her mind was of two conflicting parts. One told her she didn't belong here. The other told her she belonged nowhere else. She had to risk her life to feel this way. She had to go right to the edge of death to be saved. And finally, the ache disappeared in her chest.

"I thought I told you not to follow," he muttered.

She smiled at him, finally able to breathe, finally able to function. "And yet I keep coming back." She kept her eyes on his, sobered her face and said to him softly, "Please don't make me leave again."

It had been six weeks, and they had been separated. It had been six weeks, and nothing could have been helped. Camille couldn't stand the distance, didn't want to feel it ever again. So she lifted her hands out to him, much like she'd done when he had rushed her in his grief over Talia al Ghul on their last night together, and waited for him to step into them.

_Please don't make me leave_.

Bane stared down at her with his great height, felt his eyes lowering as she placed her hands on either side of his neck. He looked at her pouty mouth, at those whiskey colored eyes in the sun, and placed his forehead onto hers. His eyes closed completely when she took his masked cheeks into her hands and repeatedly kissed the mouthpiece, kissed him that way because it was the only way she could. He was a mess, she thought again, a mess because of his many weeks locked away in the prison he'd once been lost to long ago. But she didn't care. She held him close, gave him that comfort she found she could give him, and gripped hard as he buried his face in her neck and breathed her in.

Camille didn't want to say the words to Bane that had tied her to the wrong man before him. She didn't think she needed to tell him, didn't think Bane would want to hear them. They didn't need it between them, because it had once been their undoing. They didn't want to think about it, because it was something they might be too crippled for. Love was something far too distant, far too risky. Far too painful.

Bane gripped Camille's waist, and Camille no longer felt lost.

The chants from the pit were growing louder, and the rope was slithering along the sand. Bane glanced behind him, held onto her waist as they both looked down into the dark. Other men were climbing the rope, other men were inching to freedom. The boulder Camille had fastened it to sat still and solid, the rope tightening around it as more and more grabbed ahold and lifted themselves from hell, climbing to the sun. Climbing away from the dark. Chanting, wishing, wanting what was taken from them.

Camille ran her hands down his shoulders, tried to ignore the burning of her pale skin from the harsh light. "What are they saying?" she asked him.

They peered down into the dark, and Bane knew that freedom for them would not be as easy. The world wasn't kind, and neither was he.

"Rise," he answered.

And together, they slid the rope from the boulder and watched the men fall back into hell with a hundred screams.

After gathering her packs, they walked away from the pit, leaving behind the cries of the fallen. Leaving behind despair. The sun burned them as they continued on in the desert of India, the sand bothering them as it blew in the faint wind. He would leave the sun, take Camille with him, and return to the darkness. Softly, Bane felt her hand brush his at his side. With both their gazes set out in front of them, she laced their fingers together.

_Darling Camille._

It had been so long since Gotham City's day of reckoning. It had been so long since they'd had to face terrible truths about the people they had loved, and about life itself. Acceptance was cruel. Heartbreak was death. Happiness was an illusion. And the world… Bane gripped Camille's hand, tugged her along at his side.

Somehow, after so very long, the world felt oddly… balanced.

_**The End**_

**A/N: Follow me for **_**Amaranthine**_**, the sequel to **_**Mercenary**_** coming soon. **


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